The Case of Three Brothers – The Case of Two
by Sandylee007
Summary: A SEQUEL TO THE CASE OF THREE BROTHERS. A new tragedy and a turmoil that soon follows brings the three brothers together once more in a way that they never expected. Will all of them and those they care about make it through alive? How many hearts will burn now that Moriarty is back with a perhaps even darker threat in tow?
1. From Bitter End to Bitter Beginning

A/N: Soooo, as it turned out this lil' thing gained a life of its own in my head. Seeing the world a week too soon. (grins) Before getting started officially, though…

DISCLAIMER: Are you freaking kidding me? With my bank account I can afford myself and my cat. But a girl can dream…

WARNINGS: CROSSOVER. SEQUEL. Violence. Gore. Character death (already passed and potential). Language. General weirdness.

Awkay, because I'm always a bit skittish about starting a new fic… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

 **A NOTE TO AVOID CONFUSION:** The timeline of this very first chapter goes backwards, from future to the fic's present. The timeline WILL be brought back to normal in the next chapter. (chuckles)

* * *

 **The Case of Three Brothers – The Case of Two**

* * *

From the Bitter End to the Bitter Beginning

* * *

' _… 400 seconds to the explosion …_ '

Sherlock Holmes ran, the sheer force of determination and despair driving him on, entirely too aware of the blood staining his hands, clothes and skin. Of how treacherous tears, such he'd never admit having shed, had created patterns to the stains on his cheeks. It was the one last, desperate lunge of a man who had nothing left to go on for. Nothing but his last breath.

Sherlock, however, froze when he came face to face with the man who'd remained in the doomed building, waiting for him.

Moriarty sighed, beginning to approach. "Oh, Sherlock… The two of us, it could've been brilliant. And it has been a lot of fun, I'll admit that much." Simultaneously they drew out guns, pointing at each other. "But now that I've burned the heart out of you… It's time for you to finally die."

The hollow, bitter echoes of two gunshots marked the end of all things even more effectively than the explosion that came a little later, tearing down the swimming pool that was once the beginning of all things.

In the unnaturally silent aftermath, which would soon be pierced by the sirens of emergency vehicles, the wind howled in outrage. It swept through the debris that hid the last chapter of a horrible tragedy, caressing it like a mother would their child. Even the breeze seemed to hold the question that'd soon be on several lips.

Where did it all go so wrong, how did the countdown begin?

* * *

' _… 300 seconds to the explosion …_ '

* * *

For the first brother the start was something as innocent as a car ride.

Mycroft Holmes unleashed a quiet, long breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding when the person he'd been calling picked up. The man sounded out of breath but uninjured. " _I'm a little busy here, Mycroft._ "

Mycroft sighed and groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This nonsense has continued long enough. Let my agents finish the mission. You won't be able to find that man by yourself."

" _Watch me._ "

"He needs you." A cheap trick to play, really. But at this point Mycroft was willing to try just about anything.

There was a long, frosty pause. " _Mary needed me, too_ ", the other man growled at last. Sounding like a wounded wild animal. " _Our daughter needed me, too. And I failed them. This, making sure that they have justice… It's the only thing I can do anymore._ "

"John…!" But it was too late. The phone call was already over.

With a low growl of fury Mycroft was about to put the cell phone away until he realized that he'd received a new text message. With a frown he read it. And in a few moments his whole body turned impossibly cold.

' _Nighty night, Mikey. See you soon. JM_ '

The car's doors locked. A sickening, sweet scent filled the air. And the nightmare grew deeper still.

* * *

' _… 200 seconds to the explosion …_ '

* * *

For the second brother the countdown began in the aftermath of a long, seemingly endless case. Six children, so young that they hadn't even seen their tenth birthday, had been murdered before the BAU-team managed to catch the killer. Two more had been returned to their parents safely but Dr. Spencer Reid couldn't forget the faces of those who had been lost. He never could.

Stumbling heavily into his apartment Spencer dreamt of nothing but a nice, hot shower that'd hopefully wash away some of the memories. Or at least the dust of deep south. His whole body froze in the middle of him pulling off his coat.

He wasn't alone.

"Well hello, Spencer." The accent-rich voice was deceitfully pleasant. "Long time no see."

Spencer swallowed. "Jim?" One of his hands was already reaching out towards his gun.

He wasn't fast enough. Cold steel pressed against the back of his skull. "How many times do I have to tell you that it's James?"

* * *

' _… 100 seconds to the explosion …_ '

* * *

Curiously enough, the third brother's countdown didn't start from anything that happened directly to him.

Dr. John Watson was almost home, deep in thought and paying barely any attention to his surroundings, when he bumped into someone. Looking up he found a tall, athletic man with obviously dyed blond hair. "Sorry", he sighed. "I haven't been sleeping much lately so…"

The stranger smiled. It wasn't until much later he'd see the immense threat hiding behind it. "No harm done." The velvet smooth voice held a touch of almost hidden American accent. The man began to walk away without a single backwards glance. "Have a good night."

Hurrying towards his home, his only thoughts being of finally seeing Mary again, John paid the man barely any mind. But later, only a little later, the stranger's face would be burned into his mind until his dying moment. Because it was the monster who shattered his world.

A few moments later John's scream of soul shattering grief and barely human fury carried all the way to the street.

* * *

' _… 0 …_ '

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Awkay… That was brief but intense. (takes a deep breath)

Sooooo… Any good at all? Worth continuing? PLEASE, do let me know!

IN THE NEXT ONE: We see Mary's heartbreaking funeral, then jump forward in time. How will all those touched by the tragedy deal with the loss? And what is Moriarty up to? Not to mention Erik Collins.

Whatever the case, thank you so much for reading! And who knows. Maybe we'll meet again.

Take care!

* * *

 **Guest** (1): I'm horribly cruel, aren't I? (winces) We'll see what's up ahead…

Huge thank yous for the review!

* * *

 **Guest** (2): I know, I know. (sighs) It remains to be seen what happens next.

Massive thank yous for the review!


	2. Vows

A/N: It's been a mighty busy yet AWESOME week of traveling. But I DID succeed in completing this new chapter! Hooray…?

First things first, though… Woah! Thank you SO MUCH for all your reviews and listings! I'm INCREDIBLY happy and flattered by how much love this sequel's already received. You guys are fantastic! (hugs)

Awkay, because stalling is NEVER kind… Let's go! I hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

Ummm… **Tissue alert…?**

* * *

Vows

* * *

 _Eight weeks later._

* * *

It was almost brutally sunny and unnaturally warm on the day of Mary Watson's funeral. For some reason the weather was the detail that John remembered the clearest, later on. He couldn't recall waking up because he never even fell asleep the night before. He had absolutely no idea how he managed to brush his teeth, shave and get dressed. But apparently that was where his body met its limit.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in the living room, his fingers curled tightly around Mary's wedding ring which hung on a silver chain around his neck. He barely even twitched when the door was opened and heavy steps entered. "John?"

Slowly, still more than a little in a world of his own, John straightened his posture and turned his gaze to meet Gregory Lestrade's worried eyes. He was relieved that the other didn't ask if he was alright. The answer was obvious. "Is it time?"

Greg nodded. The man seemed to want to say something but ended up keeping it to himself. John felt eyes on him while he made sure that there were no wrinkles on his suit, dragged in a deep breath and took what was nothing short of a military posture.

 _Into battle…_

In a nearly subconscious motion his eyes shifted towards the empty space behind Greg's back. Of course there was no one there. John wasn't sure why the discovery stung as much as it did.

Greg gave him an apologetic look. "He… wanted to come, I'm sure. But…" The rest faded away entirely.

John nodded, focusing intently on fixing his tie. He'd known that Sherlock wouldn't come to the funeral. It shouldn't have hurt.

John didn't know what, exactly, happened and what he did next. But all of a sudden ten minutes had passed, he was in the bathroom, his eyes were uncomfortably moist and his throat felt like someone had been choking him. He coughed, starting to make his way towards the door. Always the soldier. "Alright, then. Let's get going."

* * *

It was the funeral that John had been dreading for the past two months. It took them this long to get the case, as they called the third end of his world, to a point where he could finally bury his wife and daughter. It sickened him to imagine that all those weeks they were poking his precious girls, cutting them to pieces and examining them inside out. Now he'd make sure that they'd get to rest in peace. It was the least he could do after failing them so badly.

The amount of reporters packed outside the small church made John's stomach turn and it took all he had not to start gagging. The media attention was nothing new or unexpected. But after weeks upon weeks of having the other biggest tragedy of his life filling the pages, of reading all the speculations from those vultures…

John didn't register what Greg snarled while helping him out and shielding him the best as the man could. Nor did it matter too much. All he could focus on was the church's door, what was hiding behind it.

Still, as they entered John froze, all breath leaving him.

There weren't many people. He'd wanted to invite only the nearest and dearest, knowing that Mary wouldn't have appreciated a spectacle any more than he did. Mycroft sat at the back, almost disguising himself into the shadows. There seemed to be a million things hiding in the usually emotionless Ice Man's eyes. Mrs. Hudson gave a him a small and frail smile of comfort through her tears when he passed by. Sorrow was visible on Molly Hooper's face. John was glad that she didn't need to be the one who…

That was when he realized that he stood right before Mary and their daughter.

Despite his pleas the coroner had been forced to cut the baby out of her mother. But at least they'd be buried together. And so he had two coffins to take to a grave today, one bigger, one so small that one of his arms was easily enough to support its weight.

At first John could only stare, as though not really comprehending what he was seeing. Mary… She seemed incredibly peaceful, with her eyes closed and her face paler than he'd ever seen her. Somehow he could've sworn that he still smelled her perfume although it was highly likely a trick of his imagination. The dark blue dress Mrs. Hudson had helped him choose for her looked amazing on her. There, lifeless and gone, she looked like an angel to him despite everything she'd done.

With much difficulty John's focus shifted to their daughter and only sheer willpower kept him from falling to his knees. She was so tiny, so very perfect. It would've been only a matter of days before the little one would've been born. As it was…

A choked, heart wrenching sound echoed and it took John a moment to realize that it crawled out of him. He clasped a hand to his mouth in a desperate, feeble attempt to prevent more from coming. Still the sobs kept slipping through.

* * *

/ _The baby was so small, so very fragile, in John's arms in the one time he was allowed to really hold her. Droplets of something wet fell to her cheeks and the doctor frowned while wiping it away, not quite comprehending. Gosh, she was so perfect…!_

 _"What's her name?" a soft voice, full of empathy that he would've appreciated in any other state of mind, inquired._

 _John swallowed loudly. It didn't erase the lump sitting in his throat. "Sheryl", he managed in a voice he couldn't recognize. "We've always called her Sheryl."_ /

* * *

The rest of the funeral wasn't much more than blur to John. The priest spoke kind words of Mary and the people around him wiped their eyes. John was oblivious to the tears running down his own cheeks while he stared at the coffins, at the precious beings inside them. Unable to look away, no matter how much he would've wanted to.

All of a sudden everyone was standing up and moving. After a very long moment John realized that it was time to start with the actual burial. He got up although he had no idea if he'd be able to stand and approached the caskets. He wished, from the bottom of his heart, that he would've been able to carry them both. Instead he watched with a barely contained whirlwind of helpless rage how others took Mary, gently and carefully. Then he breathed in the best as he could and took his daughter to his trembling arms. It was the second and last time he'd ever get to carry her. He was determined to give her a safe journey.

The path through the cemetery wasn't long but to John it was one of the longest walks he'd ever taken in his life. With utmost care they lay both coffins to the grave. John had to bite back a scream when they started to fill the hole with pitch-black dirt.

Just a little more time…!

And then, as though a switch had been flicked, it was all over. Fresh flowers lay on a fresh grave, right before two crosses that'd soon be replaced by a tombstone. It was all over. Yet there John stood, unable to stop himself from keeping watch although it was much too late. Standing straight with all the strength there was in his broken heart.

* * *

In another country the BAU-team began to grow worried when Spencer wasn't the first one to show up for work. When the genius was ten minutes late the worry grew tenfold. When an hour more passed it transformed into terror.

Something was very, very wrong.

Aaron Hotchner didn't bother complaining about Derek Morgan's speeding while they made their way towards their youngest's apartment. He wasn't feeling any more patient. Finally reaching the correct building they exchanged a dark look, then entered.

Only to discover that the local police was already there, interviewing an elderly woman who appeared nothing short of hysterical. Her brown eyes were wide behind her glasses and her clearly dyed chestnut-colored hair stood up in odd angles. "… horrible rockus! Like someone had been tearing up the whole apartment. It must've lasted at least twenty minutes, or that's what Martha and I think." Her hands were shaking while she fixed the position of her glasses. "And then, just when I was about to call the police, it became entirely quiet. So… I took a look through the door eye."

The young police officer interviewing the witness, her green eyes sharp, nodded while making notes. A spark lit in her eyes. "What did you see?"

"The hallway was so dark that I… I just don't know. And I didn't dare to open my door." The old woman wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "But… I do know that someone was moving there in the dark. Or it could've been ten people for all I know." She peered towards Spencer's door, worry clear in her eyes. "He's such a nice, polite young man. Do you think something bad happened to him?"

Aaron's heart skipped a couple of valuable beats, leaving a horrible cold spinning inside him. Beside him Derek stiffened, clearly sharing his sentiment. It took a lot out of the unit chief to maintain his professional façade.

At that point Aaron took a sharp, confident step forward, making his presence known, and held out his badge. "Aaron Hotchner, FBI. Dr. Reid is a member of my team." His eyebrows furrowed further while he observed the group of people coming in and out of the apartment. "What happened?"

The officer who'd been doing the interview sighed, running a hand through her shortcut, dark brown hair. "I'm Tina Calloway. Apparantly someone came into his apartment last night. Right now his whereabouts are unknown but if the evidence we have is anything to go by he didn't leave willingly."

"Can we take a look?" Derek asked, although it sounded more like a demand.

Tina nodded. "The crime scene unit just left so it's all clear. Later on I have questions for you as well. You two showing up saved me from having to make a phone call."

The agents paid barely any mind to her past the first sentence. With tense steps they entered Spencer's apartment. And froze.

Yes, Spencer had been taken. But the man definitely hadn't left out of his own free will. Furniture had been knocked over and broken, shards of broken glass and smashed smaller items seemed to be everywhere. It'd taken a mighty battle to drag Spencer away. The several stains of blood, bigger and smaller, that they could see brought a brand new set of chills down Aaron's spine.

For the longest time they simply stared at the destruction, as though wishing that it might disappear somehow. Then, slowly, Derek's slightly widened eyes turned towards him. A single question summed up the whole, dawning nightmare perfectly. "What the hell is going on?"

* * *

By the time Sherlock walked to the cemetery, like a dark shadow in his long coat, the funeral had been over hours earlier. Yet John was still there. Still stood dutifully by the grave, staring at it with his back to him.

For the second time since they met Sherlock found himself hesitating. Then, with slow steps, he made his way to his friend. "I'm sorry that I missed the funeral." He meant it, from the bottom of his heart. Even he knew that it was a bit of not good. "We found a new lead and thought that this time it might lead somewhere." He stared at the grave and bit his teeth together as tightly as he possibly could. Then uttered one of the most honest things he'd ever spoken. "I… I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you." John's voice was quiet and hoarse but sincere. And for some reason that was the worst part of all.

 _You should._ Instead of voicing that haunting thought Sherlock opted to focus on the crosses, mainly because looking at John's haunted face hurt too much. "We… couldn't find him yet. Either one of them."

"Good."

For once in his life Sherlock didn't even try to hide his surprise. He looked at his friend, trying to see and deduce. And then he did see, entirely too clearly. A horrible feeling settled into the pit of his stomach.

John's eyes weren't those he'd learned to know when the former soldier finally looked at him. Hard as he tried he couldn't fully read them. "The man who killed them… I'm going to find him, Sherlock. I'll find him and I'll kill him. Alone."

Sherlock swallowed. Cold swell and spread inside him. "John…"

"No!" John's eyes flashed with fury. "They… They were mine to protect, Sherlock! And I failed them! So… So I need you to let me do this alone, alright? You have to let me go and do this by myself or I'll never, ever forgive you."

Sherlock had no idea what to say. This, allowing John to chase someone so dangerous… It was the last thing he wanted to do. But from the former soldier's eyes he could tell that he had very little choice over the matter. The most important person he had in the world was slipping through his fingers and there was nothing he could do about it.

Before he could even consider saying a word John was finally moving. Walking away with such determination Sherlock knew entirely too well. Just before the doctor would've been out of earshot the man stopped once more. "You were right. There's an east wind coming." With those words his best friend, his conductor of light, was gone in way that had nothing to do with the physical distance. Like nothing but one of his pathetic, drug induced dreams.

For several minutes Sherlock stared at the direction to which his friend disappeared. As though hoping that he'd be able to bring the doctor back with the sheer power of his will. Then, his shoulders slumping with defeat, he turned towards the grave that shouldn't have been there. His eyes, full of several things that he couldn't quite handle or understand, took in the names on the crosses.

They were his to protect, too, all three of them. What felt like a lifetime ago he made a vow. One that was supposed to hold until his dying breath. Instead it ended to theirs. And it was all his fault.

He never told John that he visited the morgue, saw Mary's body. Saw what her killer had carved to the back of her neck after her death. Three simple letters that shattered his world, again.

 _I.O.Y._

Moriarty won this round. There was no use in denying facts. But John was still alive and as long as there'd be even a single breath in Sherlock's body he'd fight with all his might to make sure that the heart of the best man he'd ever met would keep beating. Shattered as it was.

He'd dealt with the possibility of John never forgiving him before and he'd do it again.

For a few more seconds Sherlock stood, torn by the evidence of a broken promise. Of the greatest failure in his entire life. And then, a new darker fire burning in his eyes, he began to walk away, taking the opposite direction from John's.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't possibly know how very close to death he came on that day, or how close his target was.

As the detective walked out of the cemetery with long, stiff strives there was a sniper's rifle tracing his every step. Until the dial tone of a cell-phone broke the stalker's concentration. After a low, hazardous growl Erik Collins picked up. "This had better be important", he snarled.

" _We had a deal, Erik_ ", Moriarty's voice drifted from the other end. It was full of threat that the other didn't even try to hide. " _We have a plan._ "

Erik gritted his teeth. "I've got him right here. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just finish him off before he comes after us."

" _Because this isn't the right day for him to die._ " Moriarty sounded impatient, which was never a good sign. " _We'll burn up his heart first. Both their hearts. And when we finally kill them they'll be glad for it._ "

Erik's jaw tightened still while he examined Sherlock's face. Took in the look in those eyes. "Have you ever hunted wounded wild animals before?" Did has partner have any idea how dangerous creatures they were dealing with?

Moriarty chuckled. " _They're my specialty._ " There was a brief, tense pause. " _So they'll come after us? Let them. Let them run around all they like. Where's the fun of this without a little danger?_ " The killer's voice was a lot darker when the man spoke again. " _And just in case you'll ever feel like breaking our deal again… I have your son. And I'll keep him entertained until you've held your part of the deal._ " With those ominous words the phone call ended.

* * *

Mycroft was deep in thought but still reacted instantly when Sherlock entered the car. His eyes were quick to spot the shadows in his brother's. "We'll see that they'll pay, Sherlock."

Sherlock gritted his teeth so hard that it had to hurt. The vehicle had been moving a mighty while before the younger brother finally looked at him. "Will we be able to keep him safe?"

Mycroft sighed, feeling old beyond his years. How was he supposed to answer that one? In the end he decided on honesty. "We'll try, Sherlock." Because to be fully honest that was all they could do. Despite all his power and resources he had no idea if he'd be able to keep anyone safe now that the powers of hell itself had been unleashed on them. "One of the Moriarty brothers just came back from beyond the grave to pull us along to hell. The reach of my arm is only so long."

Sherlock snorted.

"Sherlock." He hated how harsh he sounded but he doubted anything less would've gotten through to his brother. One of his hands trembled slightly and he balled it angrily. "John Watson isn't the only one in danger."

Instantly Sherlock's eyes flashed towards him, demanding answers.

Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I… didn't hear from Spencer in twenty-seven hours so I made some calls. He's missing."

Sherlock frowned. Only a careful eye caught the new worry on his face. "As far as Moriarty knows Spencer has nothing to do with us. He wouldn't have…"

"Yes, he would've." Mycroft's jawline tightened while he handed a strictly confidential file to his brother. "Because he's playing with someone even more dangerous than himself and his new hound needs a leash." His eyes landed on the name on top of the file. He knew that the younger man recognized it as well from how tense the other became. "Erik Collins isn't dead. And he's Spencer's biological father."

* * *

Consciousness returned to Spencer slowly and painfully. He groaned and would've curled up if his ribs would've allowed it. His head ached horribly and his thoughts didn't seem to be flow quite right. A concussion, then. Fantastic.

Slowly, afraid of how his body might take it, Spencer opened his eyes halfway. Well, at very least the light around him was dim. Once his eyes had focused a little he was able to distinguish a single oil lamp hanging on the wall.

Spencer might've passed out again because the next time he opened his eyes the oil lamp's light seemed even dimmer than before. With another, much louder groan he forced himself to a sitting position, ignoring the hellish pain it seemed to trigger everywhere in his body. Although his head didn't feel like it was ready for such he looked around, biting back the urge to vomit. What he discovered certainly didn't make him feel better.

The space around him was incredibly small and round. Like a well, although when he looked up he couldn't see an end to it in the darkness. He was definitely trapped effectively. From the corner of his eye he saw a blinking red light, indicating that someone, most likely Jim or whatever his name was, observed him.

Yes, definitely. Because just then he heard an ominous, metallic screech from behind him. Turning his head as quickly as he could to face the potential threat he saw a door that was opening slowly.

Spencer gulped thickly. It was more than likely that it was a route straight into a trap. But the other option was to stay still and… Well. That really wasn't an option.

And so, forcing his body past the fact that his legs could barely support his weight, he pushed himself up and began to limp into the dark unknown.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Uh huh…! So Reid's already in Moriarty's hands, John's falling apart, Mycroft's TRYING to keep things together and Sherlock… Who knows what and how he is! Things are looking seriously bleak right now.

Sooo… Any good, at all? This is your chance to speak out (rant out?). (grins) Oh, and if it's any consolation is DID hurt a bit to type the funeral scene.

Until next time, folks! I REALLY hope that you'll all join in then.

Take care!


	3. When You Dance With the Devil…

A/N: My laptop's been giving me IMPOSSIBLY hard time. But by some miracle the new chapter is HERE. Woot?

FIRST, though… THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for all your listings and amazing reviews! It means more than you could ever imagine that you're all there, making this journey with me.

Awkay… Stalling is mean, isn't it? So let's go! Bombs away!

 **ADDITIONAL** (or rather a renewed/repeated) **WARNING BENEATH THE CHAPTER.** If you choose to avoid spoilers and charge onwards, brave you! (grins)

* * *

When You Dance With the Devil…

* * *

Usually Sherlock most certainly didn't mind crime scenes. While he didn't enjoy the deaths, he wasn't a psychopath after all, each new scene gave the promise of a soon starting adventure. Today, however… While walking towards where a small army of Yard's finest and a flock of crime scene investigators were buzzing on the edge of Thames Sherlock felt far colder than he should've. Surely this was all just some sort of a sick nightmare.

Standing by the corpse Mycroft and Greg appeared equally sombre. There was a suspicious amount of redness in the DI's eyes. They greeted him with brief, tense nods. Fortunately neither was an idiot enough to offer words. There were none for a situation like this. Others, Anderson and Donovan, included, stared and it infuriated Sherlock far more than it should've. To have them gawking at a moment like this…

Sherlock struggled, with all his being, to maintain at least a tiny hint of the emotionless demeanor he usually mastered with ease. Now every little bit of him seemed to ache while he stopped by the body, staring at it with eyes that definitely revealed too much. The strictly uniformed CSI who'd been finishing up examining the deceased withdrew quickly at the sight of him, muttering something that sounded suspiciously lot like 'I'm sorry'. Her pity made the rage that'd been building up steadily inside Sherlock magnify tenfold.

He didn't want their pity, he wanted them to tell him that…!

Sherlock stood and stared, he had no idea how long. Clouds drifted by, constantly changing the light illuminating on the dead face. Well, whatever there was left of it, anyway. They'd used a large stone, some hints of dirt could be seen where the blows had landed. There were signs of strangulation but ultimately it was strike number four that proved lethal.

A choked, pathetic little sound left Sherlock and he tried to cover it up by clearing his throat.

Sherlock had told himself not to look too much, earlier. But he just couldn't stop himself. Couldn't help but notice that the jumper and green coat were without a doubt John's. And the body structure… It matched almost perfectly. The hair was too dark but also obviously dyed. Sherlock didn't know… Couldn't be sure… Before he'd even really thought about it his hand was already reaching out.

"Sherlock…!" Greg cautioned. Then cut himself off quickly. Mycroft hadn't said a word but Sherlock knew that the silence was his brother's doing. He didn't care.

His fingers quivered ever so slightly while he grabbed fabric. He moved it aside to reveal the skin below the shoulder. All of a sudden his knees wanted to fold entirely and only sheer willpower kept him from slumping to the ground.

There was no scar.

"It's not John." Was that really his voice? His eyes blazed as he glared around. "What have you idiots been doing for the past twenty minutes? The scar should've been the first thing to look for!" True, John hadn't made the specifics of his injury very public. But surely at least Greg had known? Receiving a call that they'd found a body that matched John almost perfectly…

Right there Sherlock found a brand new, bitter understanding towards his blogger.

Greg didn't appear to have heard him. The man clasped a hand to his lips and gasped. "Thank god…!"

Mycroft cast a firm look towards him. There seemed to be a hint of relief hiding in the Ice Man's eyes. "Walk with me, Sherlock." To both their shock the younger brother complied.

While the crime scene resumed to its natural order the brothers strolled slowly, trailing the edge of Thames and smoking hard enough to feel sick. The silence had lingered for a long time until Mycroft finally spoke. "We'll find him, Sherlock." There should've been more confidence in those words. "Both of them."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, the bitter breeze of cold wind making him realize how unnaturally warm his face felt. Eventually he snorted. "And I'm supposed to be happy with that?"

"Of course not." Nothing but steel could be seen in Mycroft's gaze. "You'll go back there and find out all worth knowing. If you want to find John and Spencer you'll have to be Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "And what are _you_ planning on doing?" He actually managed to sound mocking. Good.

Mycroft was already walking away. "I have a lot of old… acquaintances that owe me favors. I'm going to use up all of them."

"I thought you did so the last time we went after Moriarty", Sherlock pointed out. Mycroft made no comment. Somehow that spoke the loudest.

* * *

After finding out that Spencer had been taken violently the team was sent into a wave of intense worry and even stronger rage. It didn't help matters that they'd found a message that Spencer received almost two months earlier. It'd been crypted, disguised as an invitation to a distant relative's wedding, but Spencer had solved it quickly. After learning everything there'd been publicly released of their youngest's British brothers they were chilled by the brief yet beyond ominous warning hidden beneath.

' _Moriarty is still alive._ '

The waiting and wondering was pure torture on them. Of course they'd been questioned but due to obvious reasons they weren't allowed to have anything to do with the case. They were far too emotionally attached. Bound to make mistakes. On a level of reason they understood. Which didn't make it any easier.

How were they supposed to just sit back when it was their very own genius on the line?

It didn't improve matters that the search was now challenged by the Americans involved clashing with the British ones that'd appeared out of the blue. They had a feeling that Mycroft had something to do with it and certainly appreciated it but the quite open hostility was costing too much time. Spencer's time.

Eventually Aaron decided that enough was enough. So what if they couldn't investigate officially? They couldn't just leave the fate of their own into some unfamiliar hands. Especially when they knew that the search was shifting towards a foreign country.

After picking up his cell phone and calling Aaron didn't have to wait long. "Hey." He winced at the first words spoken to him. "I had a feeling that you'd heard. Yeah, that's why I'm calling. We're sure that Moriarty's taken him to England." All of a sudden he realized something and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What time is it there, anyway?"

" _Did I sound like I was asleep?_ " It was impossible to say if she was annoyed or amused. Her voice was full of tension. " _Just get over here. I'll make sure that all's set for you._ "

"We'll be there." And he meant it from the bottom of his heart. "And Prentiss? See you soon."

* * *

Avoiding Mycroft, Sherlock and the city's impossibly wide reaching CCTV-system was no easy task. John succeeded by going to one of the last places expected. He joined Sherlock's homeless network.

Yes, they were loyal to the detective. But with some money and providing them with his skills as a doctor John managed to convince them that the benefit could be mutual. In return he asked them to look for clues on Mary's murder and to hand them to him before delivering them to Sherlock, who'd given them the exact same assignment. They were efficient and the only ones able to lurk around without being noticed at all. And remarkably brave. No matter how many times the doctor pointed out the potential risks they remained unfazed. Perhaps they'd spent too much time with Sherlock.

Stunningly quickly John received results. It couldn't be longer than two to three days before a young boy, definitely no older than fourteen, came to him. Timid and dirty, the look of eternal distrust in his blue eyes. "He went by a false name, that's why it took me a while to find him. Sholto… something. Apparently the real one's Erik Collins."

Cold shivers spiked through John along with painfully hot flashes of sheer wrath. He nodded sharply, feeling a hazardous gleam taking over his eyes. "So you know where he is?" He sounded hoarse and harsh, so unlike himself that in a different frame of mind he might've found it chilly.

The boy, Vince, nodded. "Yeah. Well, I know where he's going to be. I heard him ordering a cab." After a bit of searching the child found a stained piece of paper from the pocket of a equally dirty coat. "Here."

John scanned through the assigned time, already mentally making an appointment. Then he noticed the location. His whole body felt like it'd been burning. It was a cemetery and not just cemetery. It was Mary's.

John barely had the mind to give the kid some money for his troubles. He felt a pair of eyes tracing him as he went. "Why won't you let us tell Sherlock? He could help you."

"Because I don't want to be helped. Not this time." John's broken heart was beating furiously with adrenaline and something else entirely. "Seeing him fall made me realize that I don't want to make him watch me do the same."

* * *

Spencer didn't know what he expected upon leaving the questionable safety of the well-like room. He wasn't surprised to discover pitch-black, suffocating darkness. Which didn't make it any less of a nightmare for him. Moriarty had done his homework.

The voice came so suddenly that he had to bite his lip not to gasp in surprise. " _There's a flashlight on the opposite side of the room. Go on ahead. Take it._ "

Spencer swallowed and shivered, counting his options.

He didn't know how big the room was. And more importantly, he didn't know what separated him from the flashlight that highly likely wasn't even there. But once again staying still wasn't an option, either.

After a moment's consideration Spencer took off his shoes and socks. With slow, careful movements he felt around the floor with his bare feet. His sensitive skin spotted every single empty space between the smooth stones forming it. And then, so unexpectedly that he froze entirely, he found something that he recognized entirely too well. A human body. Already cold and lifeless, having been dead for a while. A wave of sadness, repulsion and, admittedly, terror flooded through him.

Moriarty chuckled. " _Sorry about that. I was meant to move her… to a more suitable location but you were faster than I expected. Too stubborn for your own good, just like your brothers._ " There was a small, extremely tense pause. " _She couldn't find the flashlight, either. And just like you she didn't watch her step in the dark._ "

It was the smallest of movements. One that he hadn't even realized he was making. But somewhere along the way he'd taken a tiny step backwards. And now he could feel a wire right behind his ankle, twitching like a spider's web. The darkness responded instantly.

Spencer could hear something whistling through the air, coming from three directions all at once. He had very little time to react but he chose to use it well. Broken ribs and a concussion be damned. He wasn't going to die like this.

He jumped into air, gritting his teeth together to hide how much it hurt, and forced his battered body to the most impressive backflip he'd ever performed. Something metallic flew right past his back and another hazardous piece narrowly missed his throat. Despite knowing that he was entirely too close to reaching his limit Spencer pushed himself up for another round, barely even noticing how a blade tore a nasty cut to his leg. He flew through the air, still all too aware of the dangerous objects passing him by. There must've been at least ten of them. Then, just like a switch had been flicked, it was over.

Finally finding a wall Spencer unwisely tossed all caution to the wind and leaned eagerly against it, gasping as though for dear life. He was dizzy, in a hellish amount of pain and barely standing. And he doubted that Moriarty would let him stand still for long.

" _Mine, mine._ " The criminal mastermind he once shared an apartment with sounded genuinely impressed. " _You're certainly something else, aren't you? Perhaps I've underestimated you, after all. Oooh, this is going to be so much fun!_ " There was nothing friendly or warm in the pause that followed. " _Well, what are you doing just standing there? Do continue. Surely you've… profiled by now that I'm a very impatient man._ "

And just like that the very floor disappeared from underneath Spencer's feet. This time he couldn't quite hold back a gasp as he fell down, down, down. Like a bird that'd suddenly sustained a pair of broken wings.

The fall was unexpected. The landing was even so. He crashlanded harshly and with an uncontrollable moan of pain against something incredibly hard. For a few moments he was sure that he'd black out. That was when he heard the bizarre ticking. Was it a countdown? A threat? Or just an attempt to mess with his head?

Adrenaline spiked up, clearing his head a little bit. He gathered absolutely all the little strength that he had, having no intention of giving up just yet. What he faced made cold shivers run through his whole body.

There were mirrors all around him, creating both walls and a pathway, and blood stained footprints leading the way.

" _Now what's this? You're not getting tired already, are you?_ " Moriarty was practically purring. " _Now be a good boy and come over here. Tick tock, Spence. I'm waiting._ "

* * *

John's whole body was full of lava and fury while he made his way to the nearly deserted graveyard. His hands, however, weren't shaking or sweaty while he tightened his grip on his gun. He'd never hesitated before a kill and he wasn't about to start now.

And sure enough, his target was exactly where he expected the man to be. John's steps made no sound while he approached, like a wild beast approaching an unsuspecting victim. Before the other man could even twitch he'd pressed his gun against the back of a skull that he wanted to smash with his bare hands. "Hands up", he growled, his eyes narrowing and darting suspicious glances around. There was no one in the shadows. "Keep them where I can see them."

Erik Collins obeyed smoothly and quickly. "Well hello, John. You got here even faster than I expected."

John pressed the gun just a little tighter, fighting to control his breathing. "I'll kill you. But you can still affect on how much it's going to hurt", he hissed. He had to keep a long pause to be sure that his voice wouldn't betray him. "Why?" It was the question that'd been haunting him mercilessly for the past two months. "Why her? Why now? Was it you or Moriarty calling the shots?"

Erik sighed, sounding bored. "I'm a contract killer, John. Killing out of order… It's what I do." A second ticked by. "Although I do enjoy my job more than most."

John pulled the trigger, the sound louder than either of them had expected. He smirked at the sight of Erik twitching. There wasn't a gunshot. "The next one isn't going to be empty."

Erik peered over his shoulder towards him, making the gun point directly at his forehead. "What, exactly, is it that you expect me to do?" The killer sounded genuinely curious. "To apologize? To regret my actions? To beg for mercy?"

"No", John admitted honestly. He was fully prepared to pull the trigger again. "I expect to see you as dead as I had to see them."

Erik smiled. The man's gaze shifted towards something behind John. "Then you'll have to wait for a little longer."

John turned his head with a frown, not letting the gun twitch the slightest bit from his hard sought target. His eyes widened and his lips opened twice before any sound came. "What…?"

The last thing he knew was the unmistakable scent of Clair de la Lune.

* * *

In the horrific maze of mirrors Spencer struggled the best as he could to keep his constantly growing level of alarm from showing as he advanced cautiously. He didn't know where he was. More importantly, he didn't know where Moriarty was. And he most definitely didn't like the space around him.

" _Gosh, Spencer_ ", Moriarty chuckled and the voice seemed to echo everywhere simultaneously. " _Now look at you! Like a deer caught in the headlights._ "

Spencer fumbled forward and gritted his teeth when finding a yet another glass wall. There was a lot he would've wanted to snarl but opted to stay perfectly quiet and just listen instead. His eyes darted around, spotting at least ten shadows moving all at once.

And then he could see Moriarty's face on two of the mirror walls around him.

Spencer's eyes kept exploring the space, furiously attempting to calculate every possible option. Steps. He could hear them approaching. But where were they coming from? He shifted, a couple of soundless moves guiding him onwards so that his back was pressed right against a definite wall. Or so he thought. Because all of a sudden the cool surface his fingertips had been tracing was gone. Instead he felt a warm breath against his neck.

"Lesson number one." The voice came from directly behind him, now. "When you invite someone to a dance make sure that you know the steps. Otherwise it gets horribly tedious."

Spencer's instincts kicked in immediately despite his injuries. Moriarty had a bad leg from their previous spat. His eyes darted quickly and subtly to his side and in a flash he kicked backwards, aiming exactly to the old injury. Incredibly quickly the criminal mastermind caught up with their strange dance's new rules and spun out of the way, almost managing to get his back against the wall in the process. Their knees nearly brushed together as they twirled, somewhere along the way locking eyes and holding.

Moriarty chuckled. The man seemed… pleased, almost. "Well, how about that. The pretty boy has learned to play dirty. I like it." The criminal tilted his head. "But shouldn't you have learned lesson number two by now? Never bite more than you can chew." The man smirked, revealing his teeth like an attacking wolf. "Playing dirty isn't your area. It's ours."

Sensing a new presence Spencer tried to spin around but he wasn't quite fast enough to meet the threat before it was too late. He gasped, barely enough to make a sound, when the sound of a gun going off echoed and almost immediately all too familiar, hellish burn took over his right leg. He fought a remarkably brave battle but he was bound to lose from the start.

Refusing to go down on his knees Spencer slid to a sitting position, despite the immense agony managing to turn his head just enough to see the second attacker. His eyes, hazy from pain, widened a little at what he discovered. He blinked against the mist trying to take over his head but the visage remained stubbornly. "Mycroft and Sherlock… They said…"

From the shadows a far too familiar man emerged. A second Moriarty. The man gave him a small, sardonic smile. "Did you honestly think that Sherlock and that pretty little old teammate of yours are the only ones able to cheat death?" All of a sudden the newly appeared brother's eyes narrowed and flashed with something incredibly threatening. "Try a stunt like that again… and we'll see how many lives you have left."

* * *

The evening was darkening rapidly and a fast approaching rain could be felt in the air when two men sat in a black car right outside the New Scotland Yard. It was supposed to be a high security location. Neither of them felt particularly safe with all the shadows lurking around everywhere.

Mycroft's hand was as steady as always when he handed a flash drive towards his companion. "He did a fairly good job at trying to destroy the CCTV-camera. But my technician was better. His face is revealed right there. Make sure that all your men get a picture. I'll ensure that it's printed in every newspaper tomorrow."

Greg nodded firmly. His heart was thumping a bit too fast and he couldn't stop casting suspicious glances through the car's windows. Who could blame him when two monsters were at large? "I will. I take it you already know who he is?"

Mycroft's jawline tightened. "He's Erik Collins. Moriarty was and apparently still is one of his many employees. Moriarty got him out of an American prison by framing his death."

Greg sighed, a foul taste rising into his mouth while unpleasant memories filled his head. "Sounds a bit too familiar…" He took a deep, steadying breath. "So… A contract killer, huh?"

Mycroft's nod was stiff. "All necessary information is attached. Make sure that your men know exactly how dangerous he is. You've already seen what he did to Mary Watson. Even Moriarty is intimitated by him."

Greg gritted his teeth, as ever a man preparing for a war. It took a while before he managed to look at his companion. "We'll find him, won't we?" He sounded like a child looking for a reassurance. He hated it. "And we'll stop him. This time for good. We'll stop both of them."

Mycroft looked back. Hard as he tried he couldn't read the million secrets and unvoiced words hiding in those eyes. "We'll try."

Greg nodded slowly. Trying to appear more optimistic than he felt. "We won't let Sherlock fall this time. Or John." He was already out of the vehicle when he peered over his shoulder. Their eyes met and somehow no words were needed.

What good would 'be careful' do when they were about to face the devil itself?

Neither man noticed the shadow observing them, hidden so well that detection would've been impossible. A sniper's rifle rose, as it once did against John. Without even a hint of hesitation it took aim.

Through a silencer the sound of a gunshot was almost inaudible, even in the quiet of a soon to be falling night.

* * *

As soon as Sherlock entered Baker Street he could feel that something was horribly wrong. He frowned and froze close to the doorway, every single one of his instincts strained to their extreme. "Mrs. Hudson? Has anyone been in while I was away?"

There was no response and it wasn't until then he remembered that she was away, visiting a friend. Maybe that was for the best. He had a very strong feeling that he wasn't alone and he very much preferred facing whatever there was waiting for him without her presence.

A sane man might've retreated and called the police. But Sherlock had never been accused on being one. So he charged right into battle, knowing full well what a ridiculous risk he was taking.

The lights refused to be switched on. His frown deepened and a storm of cold shivers accompanied it. Sherlock gritted his teeth, advancing further and eventually finding the living room. Despite the lack of light he could distinguish a figure lay on the couch he'd occupied so very often. Just resting there, as though taking a nap.

Sherlock hadn't quite decided which one of the five possible courses of action to take before his cell phone started ringing. He shivered, then picked up with a eerily steady hand.

He wasn't surprised to hear Moriarty's voice. " _Well finally. I was getting tired of waiting for you. Hang on a moment…_ " There was a small pause, without a doubt to add drama. " _Let there be light!_ " With that and an unnaturally loud double clap the lights were switched on, so suddenly that it blinded Sherlock.

When his vision finally returned Sherlock almost wished that it hadn't. At first he couldn't quite process what he was staring at. Then it became entirely too clear, making his stomach turn with its force. He barely registered how his eyes grew misty for a long moment.

There on the couch lay Molly Hooper. Her eyes closed, looking like she was merely sleeping. He might've bought the illusion if he hadn't seen clearly that she wasn't breathing. The blood staining her clothes and the at least twenty sharp, star shaped pieces of metal that'd killed her helped bring the gruesome truth home.

Moriarty laughed like someone had just cracked a particularly amusing joke. " _I must apologize, Sherly. I was unforgivably sloppy the previous time around. I missed one variable, one of those few people that matter. Well, I do try not to repeat my mistakes._ "

Sherlock wanted to snarl. Wanted to scream. At least spit out something venomous. But as it was all words were lost on him.

Moriarty certainly didn't have such a problem. " _Oh, don't pout. You look like a child who lost a favorite toy or their pet._ " A second ticked by. " _I'm sorry, that was horribly cruel. Poor, old Redbeard…!_ " The man sounded like a purring cat. " _Now go on. I know how eagerly you always examine the corpses and this one has… a special little gift for you. Take a look into that pretty little mouth of hers._ "

Sherlock really, honestly didn't want to comply. He didn't want to touch her, not when she was… like this. But he also knew that he had fairly little choice over the matter. And so he walked on with reluctant strides, focusing intently on not thinking about what he was doing. His hands weren't quite as steady as he would've wanted them to be when he took a uncharacteristically gentle hold of her, prying her lips apart. At first he couldn't see a thing. But then, as light found its way in, his head spun and he quite honestly had to fight against the desire to recoil a step or two.

Stuffed on top of her tongue was a cut off man's middle finger.

Finally, finally, Sherlock found his voice. His eyes, oddly blurry, narrowed and he couldn't look away from Molly's corpse although he wanted to. "I'll find you", he hissed, his voice rumbling like that of a furious lion. "And I'll end you."

" _Then run along already!_ " Moriarty encouraged him cheerily. " _Because if I get bored waiting for you I'll just have to play with another piece of your heart instead. Are you sure that you know how many of them I have in my possession?_ " With those words, which plunged a knife of steel and ice right into Sherlock's gut, the phone call was over.

* * *

TBC

* * *

 **ADDITIONAL WARNING:** Character death. And because I can't stress this enough… Gruesome content and extreme violence.

* * *

A/N: Oh dang…! This has GO TO BE a record from me. A quadruplet cliffie? And after such a cruesome chapter. (winces) What in the world can this lead to?

Sooooo… Thoughts? Comments? Rants…? That box down below is all yours. (grins)

I REALLY have to get going now. But who knows. Maybe I'll meet you next time…?

Take care!


	4. … Expect It to Hurt

A/N: Is this an early update? (blinks) Meh, oh well. This chapter basically typed itself (whatever it says about my mental health…) so why not post it. I hope you guys don't mind…?

First things first, though. THANK YOU, so very much, for your AMAZING reviews and support! I'm all excited that you've joined in for this second part of the story. I swear to do my best to make it a good march!

Awkay, before I get all sappy… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll be pleased with the ride.

SONG INSPIRATION: 'Freakshow' from Skillet just somehow resonates with this whole story. The air of creepy is awesome!

* * *

… Expect It to Hurt

* * *

John woke up feeling drowsy beyond all belief and nauseous. He frowned, trying to piece vague glimpses of memories together. What… happened? He was approaching a cemetery when someone called… Mycroft? (' _He needs you._ ') Why was it all so blurry in his mind?

Someone chuckled and a tender hand brushed his cheek. He flinched, wanting to get away from the touch. "Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead", a woman's voice coaxed gently. "I'm not going to let you sleep the day away again."

Mostly out of the realization that he'd have to see who he was with John forced his eyelids halfway open. What he discovered made his heart jump before it seemed to stop entirely for a long moment. He swallowed convulsively, his foggy brain struggling as hard as possible to bring some sense to this all. "Mary…?" he managed, not liking how thick and stiff his tongue felt. His eyes didn't feel right, either. They stung and every few seconds his vision blurred. "But, you…" Hard as he tried he couldn't bring himself to voice the rest. _I saw you dead!_

Mary's eyes darkened and she sighed. "It was that dream again, wasn't it?" Slowly, as though expecting that he might lash out, she took his hand and guided to where her heart was beating. "Feel that? I'm very much alive. Both of us are. Everything's okay."

This was wrong, all of this. Mary… Her hair seemed too dark. Her eyes were a bit too blue. And her voice… But somehow this, having her beside him, alive and warm…

If this was still a dream why should he want to wake up?

John emitted a loud, almost hysterical chuckle, the newfound relief overwhelming him. He buried his face into his hands, pressed harder than he should've. In a moment he looked at her once more, drank in the view. "So you…", he choked out. "You, and the baby…"

Mary frowned. "What… were you dreaming about?" It was her turn to chuckle. Somehow it didn't sound right although he was too drowsy to figure out why. "John, I'm not pregnant. We've only been together for a little over three months. Don't you think it's a bit too early to dream about babies?"

She meant it as a joke but to John it felt like he'd been stabbed. He emitted a barely audible, strangled mew, reaching out a desperate hand towards her stomach. Sure enough it was flat. There was no life in it. "But… It felt so real…"

"I know", she sighed, kissing his forehead. "Just like that dream of Sherlock coming back to life." Her thumb caressed the back of his hand. "I know that it hurts right now but it'll pass. I promise."

A tremor went through John. His head refused to catch on, to become clear. But those words… "Sherlock's… still…?" … _gone_ … Sherlock's return, all their adventures afterwards, his wedding, Magnussen… It'd been nothing but a dream?

Mary's eyes seemed sad but it didn't feel genuine. "Yeah." She gave him a few seconds. "I… I'm so sorry, John. But yes, he's still gone." She kissed his head again. "I'll call Dr. Tallis in the morning. It sounds like you've hit another rough patch." With those words she left the bed. "Just rest, alright? I'll make you some tea. It'll help you clear your head."

John barely heard. Hadn't heard much past the point where she told him that Sherlock was still dead. His daughter and getting his best friend back were nothing but a lie. Under the weight of it all there was only thing John could do. He hid his face into his hands and fought hard not to scream.

* * *

A bitter wind blew when Sally Donovan approached the New Scotland Yard, feeling utterly exhausted and old beyond her years. The first thing she noticed was the still persisting pool of blood, the same now brownish red that'd coated her hands some hours earlier. She shivered and froze, willing herself not to feel sick as the memories flooded in.

Somehow, impossibly, Greg had still been conscious when she found him. Conscious yet bleeding heavily from the gunshot wound on his chest. Why the sniper hadn't taken a head shot Sally couldn't even guess but for now she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The mental image of Greg's impossibly scared and pleading eyes, one that'd probably haunt her for the rest of her days, was more than enough torment for her mind.

The CSIs had probably finished up a while ago and the cleaning up crew was without a doubt only minutes away. There were no more people passing by or gawking to a point where she'd feel the need to shout something very unpleasant. Still she wasn't alone.

Sherlock stood only a step or so from where Greg lay sprawled what felt like ages ago. Looking like some strange version of a delayed Grim Reaper in his long coat and with his perfectly straight posture. And lost, very, very lost. It was incredible how the man she once called a psychopath now appeared so very human that it hurt to watch.

Sally shivered, unable to look away from the pool of blood although she would've wanted to. How much of a man's full blood volume was it? She had an inkling feeling that Sherlock might know.

She hadn't expected Sherlock to notice her presence. That's why she jumped when he spoke all of a sudden in a tone that she couldn't associate with him. "Any news?"

Sally pondered her answer carefully. "They… don't know very much, yet." If she'd told him what they really said it might've crushed whatever force of will it was keeping his thin, strained body standing. Instead she voiced the only positive thing there was to cling to. "He made it through the surgery, though." Was it cruel, merciful or just selfish? Either way she couldn't kill whatever feeble shreds of hope there were left.

Sherlock nodded barely visibly. He didn't bother to glance towards her to see if she was lying. Instead he kept staring at the blood.

"Every last bit of Mycroft's network was activated by this." Sherlock's tone was hard, somewhere between a growl and a moan of sheer agony. "They'll stop at nothing to get him back."

Sally didn't quite know what to say to that. Yes, she'd heard that Mycroft disappeared right after Greg got shot. That pretty much everyone Sherlock held dear in the world were either dead, gravely injured or missing. Somehow a simple 'I'm sorry' didn't seem to cut it.

And then she didn't have to wonder any longer. Because all of a sudden Sherlock received a text message. The man's eyes flashed like those of a bloodhound that'd caught a fresh scent before the man began to hurry away. Sally frowned. "What is it?"

Sherlock shrugged. The sleuth didn't look over his shoulder while walking away. "Everyone's got their own network."

"Sherlock." Sally's voice was far more gentle than she'd expected. She gritted her teeth, not wanting to look at the blood anymore. "It's not your fault."

Sherlock froze and tensed up for a long moment. Like someone who'd just been struck. The man didn't look towards her. "Why did you say that?"

Sally would've smiled, a little, if it wasn't all so heartbreaking. "Because someone had to." And she, of all people, was the only one left to do so.

Sherlock didn't say a word. The detective's steps didn't seem as confident as they usually did while he walked away and hailed a cab that seemed to appear from thin air. Leaving her standing alone in the brutal east wind, with the memories of desperate eyes haunting her.

* * *

"Can you hear me? Try to open your eyes. Come on, wake up. Good, that's it."

The voice was soft and friendly. Inviting. Slowly, still stubborn as ever, the grey hue Spencer had been floating in began to drift away. He should've been in pain. For some reason that was the first thought entering his still foggy head. He frowned, attempting to get some answers. Finally he managed to force his eyelids at least slightly apart. There was a dark shadow, most likely a human being, hovering above him.

"That's right, try to wake up for me. Moriarty let me give you some medication, that's why you're not in pain right now." Clearly sensing his rapidly rising distress she went on. "He supplied me with your patient files. I'm aware of your… history. Don't worry, I kept the dosage to the minimum. Just try to calm down."

By some miracle her calm, soft voice helped him do just that despite the shame lingering in him. Gradually his line of vision cleared, allowing him to see his companion. She was a woman of around his age with very beautiful, Asian features and long, unruly black hair that she'd tied hastily. She had a clearly audible British accent. Adopted as a baby or a very small child, then.

"Spencer." Hearing his first name surprised him enough to earn his attention. She shone a light into his eyes. "Could you follow this for me?" He obeyed and she nodded with a small hum once she was finished. "Good."

Spencer blinked slowly. Clearly the pain medication he was on wasn't enough because the agony was already beginning to gnaw at him. He shifted the best as he could. "You're… a doctor." He sounded slurred and hoarse. It didn't matter. He needed something other than physical discomfort to focus on.

She nodded. "Yes." She looked at his leg and frowned, then began to work on the bandages. He wanted to ask what was wrong but didn't quite manage to. "Moriarty… He doesn't want you to die." _Yet._ "That's why I'm trying to keep you from getting an infection."

His leg was starting to hurt hellishly, really. And his hand wasn't much better. What was wrong with it? He hadn't been shot there, right? He wanted to ask, so many things, about both his condition and her. "What's your name?" was all he manged, gritting his teeth when whatever she did to his injury made him feel like his leg had been set on fire.

For a few moments she looked surprised. Then resumed working. "Aaliyah."

Spencer nodded, desperately trying to focus on her name instead of the hellish agony. "Okay… Okay…" He winced and bit his lip. "We… We'll get out of here. Somehow. I promise."

The bitter chuckle Aaliyah emitted surprised them both. She wiped her eyes quickly, subtly. "I… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But…" She showed him a horrible burn scar that covered most of the back of her neck. "This… is what he gave me when I tried to escape for the first time. And this…" She showed him her right leg. It was prosthetic. "… is what I got for my second attempt. I was pregnant at the time." Her eyes were hard and oddly hollow. "So… I'm sorry, Spencer. But I find it hard to believe that we'd get out anytime soon."

* * *

Dusk was setting slowly over a tiny, private London airport when a long longed reunion finally took place. If only it would've been allowed to happen under different circumstances. The team and Emily Prentiss borrowed a moment to rejoice over seeing each other and to introduce the woman to Alex before Emily tensed up. "We've gotta get going", she explained. "I managed to make sure that none of Moriarty's men heard that you're here but staying out in the open for too long isn't a good idea. His eyes and ears are everywhere."

They packed up to her car, which she'd managed to hide into a remarkably well chosen invisible corner. As soon as they were inside both sides began to recap the situation thus far. The BAU team felt a horribly cold sense of dread seeping in when the full horror began to dawn.

Molly Hooper. Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft Holmes. John Watson. Spencer, of course. And who knew what game was played with Sherlock.

"It's like he's decided to destroy every single person Sherlock cares about", JJ murmured, her eyes wide and bright with terror.

Emily nodded sharply, taking a sudden turn to the right. The glance to the traffic surrounding them revealed that she was keeping an eye on anyone possibly tailing them. Her shoulders relaxed only marginally. "The house of his adoptive parents is guarded like a fortress. But all those people that have already been pulled into the game…" Her jawline tightened. "We're running out of time."

David shook his head with a frown. "This doesn't make any sense to me. How can two men orchestrate something like this?" It seemed to dawn on him the instant he said it. "Unless Moriarty has a new web."

Emily nodded. "He does. And honestly… We don't know how deep and wide it goes yet. Or who works for it. We were just about to gain some insight when this began." Her eyes flashed, observing a red car that took the same small road they did. All of them exhaled loudly when it headed right while they continued to left. "And… It's not two men but three. Erik Collins. Jim and James Moriarty."

For a moment they all stared at her. Then Derek groaned. "What?"

Emily focused on the road for a minute or so. "When I came to London it didn't take long before I started working more or less directly for Mycroft. I was in the troupes that helped him and Sherlock bring down Moriarty, the first time. It wasn't until after last Christmas we found out that there were two Moriarty boys. They'd done an amazing job at hiding the traces."

Aaron sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Well. This explains how he managed to gather such an organization."

Derek shrugged. There was a blaze of fury and determination in his eyes. "So? One, two or three. They were taken down before, we can do it again. We'll find Reid and take him home."

"If we want to do that we'll have to be ready for _anything_." Emily's eyes were entirely too sombre upon meeting them through the rearview mirror. "We're talking about a man who had a Yard DI shot and also kidnapped a federal agent on foreign soil, a man who basically is the British government and John Watson. Most of that almost right under Sherlock's nose."

"Yeah." Derek frowned, some cold settling into him. "And?"

"The Moriarty twins are monsters. This, the killing, terror, torture and destruction… It's nothing but a game to them. Something to keep them from getting bored." Emily sighed, focusing on driving for a while. She'd been biting her fingernails again. Aggressively. "If you come after them with me… You need to understand that the second they detect you the game is on. And if we lose we're as good as dead."

* * *

Mycroft opened his eyes. He was sure of it. So why couldn't he see anything? He attempted to shake his head to clear it, only to realize that he could barely move. Fighting furiously not to panic he tried his ankles and wrists to discover that they'd been strapped firmly by something rather soft but firm. His hands were fastened above his head and… Was he hanging from something? If it wasn't for some miracle he wasn't going to get anywhere before Moriarty would allow otherwise.

The muscle cramps would be glorious, not to even mention whatever Moriarty might have in store for him…

Maybe, at very least, there was nothing wrong with his eyes after all. Because he felt fabric wrapped around his head to cover them now that he'd taken a few moments to sort out his drugged mind. Instantly the need to tear off the restraint rose and swell until it was almost unbearable. He struggled the best as he could, trying to get at least one of his hands free. Trying to regain at least some sense of control.

Was there anyone around? Because thus far he hadn't heard a sound. He hadn't been able to distinguish anything that would've told him that he hadn't been just abandoned to some lonely, miserable pit. Was it because of the way his ears and head were hurting? Why wasn't Moriarty there taunting him yet? What were they planning on doing to him?

Mycroft weighed his options for a while. Then, on a whim, attempted to make a sound to let anyone listening know that he was awake. Only to find an immense surge of agony flooding through him the second he tried to open his mouth. He gave it a second go, focusing furiously to keep himself from panicking. This time the pain was even worse. Like either his lips or tongue had been torn to pieces.

That was when he realized that it wasn't a question of what would be done to him. It was what had already happened. Sensory deprivation. This was Moriarty's own version of hell picked just for him.

* * *

John had no idea when he'd fallen asleep, nor did he care too much. But all of a sudden, in the absolute darkness of the night, he woke up to the sound of a baby crying. As though the child sensed that someone was listening the noise grew ten times louder, seemed to boom like a thunder on the bedroom's walls. Tearing his heart like a bullet or a knife although he couldn't fully understand why.

He wasn't a father! Mary just told him…! So why…?

But some part of John's confused, unbearably foggy mind seemed to know. And before he could do a thing to stop it tears were pooling into his eyes, some spilling down his cheeks. The baby's crying went on and on and on, making his heart hammer desperately.

What the hell was going on?!

In the middle of John's feeble, frantic attempts to leave the bed Mary woke up. She frowned, placing a warm hand on top of his. For some reason the touch didn't feel right, not tonight. "John?" she murmured. "What are you doing?"

John swallowed thickly, desperately trying to wipe away the tears. He didn't want her to see them, especially when he couldn't explain what was going on even to himself. "I… The baby… Can't you hear her?" How could she just sit there so calmly when…?

Mary frowned. Something about her eyes bothered him but his mind was so cloudy that he couldn't understand why. "A… baby? John, what are you talking about? There's no baby."

John emitted a choked gasp. "How can you not hear her?" he exclaimed, a bit louder than he'd meant to. Not that he would've minded much at the moment. The heart shattering cries were louder than ever to him. "It's like she's in the next room! I have to…"

Mary's hand was firm while squeezing his. It hurt more than it should've. "John." Fear was only one of the many emotions on her face. "There's… Love, I can't hear anything because there's no baby. Remember?" When his eyes instinctively strayed towards her stomach, this indescribable yet crushing feeling of loss and despair filling him, she seemed to stiffen. Or was it all his imagination? "I already told you, John. There never has been a baby."

And for some reason those words hurt more than anything John had ever heard in his entire life.

* * *

In the monitor room Moriarty watched with an ice cold, tiny smile how John fell apart completely, loud, proud sobs breaking through. Then, satisfied, he pressed 'stop' on the recorder that'd been playing the baby's wails and left the room. The night was almost over and he had another playmate to catch up with…

* * *

Erik Collins had killed more people than he could reliably count. And he enjoyed it, immensely, which he wasn't ashamed to admit. On a good day the thirst for blood was nothing but phantom pain, lingering somewhere in his veins, eternally searching for a way out. On a bad day it was something far stronger and darker.

Today wasn't a good day.

Erik's expression didn't change the slightest as he listened to Spencer's screams coming from the other side of a thick, metallic door. He didn't fidget or express the merest bit of emotion even when it became entirely too quiet in the other room. The only visible warning sign was the pitch black flame smouldering in his eyes. Erik was like a wild beast, waiting patiently for the perfect chance to strike.

Eventually the door opened. When a man emerged Erik didn't care which one of the Moriarty twins it was. They were already both dead to him. "What did you do to him?" he asked, his tone more curious than anything else.

Moriarty gave him a sickeningly faked smile. "Well aren't you in an impatient mood today?" The criminal began to walk away. "All that excitement left me famished. Would you like to join me for some Chinese?"

Erik's face or eyes still betrayed no emotion. With the composure of a sniper he examined his target, his head tilted. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just kill you and that pretty little doctor of yours right now." That unexpected hint of paternal protectiveness was, perhaps, some distant echo of biology. In his own sick way he was defending his offspring, the carrier of his genes.

Moriarty stopped and peered over his shoulder. There was genuine fascination in the man's eyes. "Well how about that! Are telling me that you… honestly care?" The psychopath mock sobbed, then smirked. "How adorable!"

Erik's calm didn't falter. He focused on imagining how the other's brain might look splattered all over those dull gray walls. "One… good… reason", he repeated patiently, as though to a child.

"Aside the fact that it's impossible to penetrate that room by force?" Moriarty mused, then went on. "Alright. Fine. I'm in a particularly good mood today, so alright. You should consider yourself lucky. Aside us only that little doctor of mine knows this tiny detail, and between the two of us she might not live long." The criminal mastermind walked closer until the distance could be considered intimate. Then the man leaned closer to his ear, as ever someone who was about to whisper a great secret. "You wanted one good reason. But you might not like it very much…"

* * *

In the end it didn't take a lot of deduction work. Moriarty was a narcissist. Of course the man would be waiting in the building where they first met.

Sherlock's long, nearly soundless steps were almost eerily calm when he approached the morgue of Bart's, trying to maintain his stone-hard mask of indifference and brace himself for anything. Of course what he faced was one of the thirty-one scenarios he'd envisioned. Still it made him freeze for a moment of weakness that he loathed instantly.

Moriarty was indeed there, sitting beside Molly's body. Upon seeing him the criminal smirked like someone meeting an old friend. "Shirley! About time you showed up." The man gave him a crooked pout. "I thought that I'd have to wait all night and this place is scary when it's this late. Who knows what's lurking here in the dark!" His expression changing once more Moriarty looked at the body. "Don't you think that it's a bit ironic that she was brought here, of all places? I'll bet she never saw it coming."

It took a lot of the self control that Sherlock didn't resort to violence. But by some miracle he managed to keep himself from going at the criminal, refused to let the man push his buttons. "Where are they?" he hissed.

Moriarty chuckled. "Do you really think that I'd just tell you? Now where's the fun in that?" The psychopath tutted and clicked his tongue. "No, no, Shirley. You need something far more complex. Wouldn't it be so much more fun to find them by yourself?"

Sherlock all but growled. It was a miracle that he managed to resist a violent assault. "Are they alive?" His voice was sharper than any blade.

"Yes", Moriarty confirmed, stretching the first letter. "For now. I'd say that in one piece but… Well." The man shrugged carelessly. Then clapped his hands together so hard that it echoed painfully loudly. "Now… Since you failed to fall I owe you a new game. But of course I can't let you get to work empty handed. Open that door number seven, will you?" The criminal grinned like a very happy little boy, clapping his hands again. "Ooooh, this is so exciting!"

Sherlock didn't know if he wanted to face whatever was behind the tiny door. Or rather who. But he wasn't about to show weakness in front of the monster. And so, steeling himself with a single breath, he opened it and pulled out the body. His expression almost betrayed him when he found himself face to face with… himself. Or rather, the perfect replica of him. Killed by a single bullet right between the eyes.

"How, exactly, did you imagine that I was able to make that little girl scream at the mere sight of you? She became very, very familiar with your face before you walked into that room." Moriarty shook his head, tutting. "The horrible things you did, Locky…! That poor girl." The lunatic's eyes flashed with something chilling. "Now, I had him preserved and transferred here for a very special little task. Take a look inside. Don't be shy, I'm sure he won't mind."

Sherlock's hands hesitated only for a moment as he stared at the gaping hole on the unnamed corpse's chest. Something akin to despair drove him on. And it wasn't like he'd never done anything of this sort before…

Moriarty kept talking all the while. As though nothing of any importance was happening. "It was a lucky coincidence that I met him at all. What pity that he became a problem and had to be euthanized. I had a lot of fun with him."

That was when Sherlock found it. Two plastic bags, hiding right behind the heart. How poetic.

Moriarty giggled. "See? Everyone has a heart."

Sherlock pulled out the bags, examining them with carefully restrained scientist's eyes. One of them contained a gun. The other a strange device that had three green dots blinking on it. Was that London on its screen? Yes. He'd know the city's outline anywhere.

"See, those three are still alive. For now. And if you're fast enough you may be able to reach two of them before that thing's battery runs out."

Sherlock looked up with an arched eyebrow. His face didn't betray the way his heart was hammering. "And the gun?"

Moriarty smiled sweetly. "I've missed you. You're the most exciting playmate I've had in my life. So, to show how special you are, I arranged some… cases for you. For old time's sake." With those ominous words the man began to walk away. "You've got four bullets. Be sure to use them wisely. And Sherlock?" About to step into an elevator the criminal peered over his shoulder with a wicked, demonic grin. "Happy hunting."

Sherlock was a high functioning sociopath. A man without a heart. But at that moment he just couldn't help himself. Without a thought, without any proper aim, he lifted the gun and fired.

Having anticipated it Moriarty dodged his bullet easily. A merry laugh echoed on the elevator's walls. "Three bullets left." A nod was darted at the device in his far from steady hand. "Don't you think that you should stop wasting time?" The doors closed, separating them.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself, as much as he hated it. Swiftly and sharply he looked towards the device's screen. His chest constricted painfully when it flickered, looking like it was about to shut down. Then it resumed and he had to bite his lip not to emit a small cry of relief. He knew that Moriarty was listening and didn't want to give the man such satisfaction.

Three green lights still blinked up at him. Three people waiting for him to go and get them. And he'd fail one.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, his eyes filling with a storm. It was time to focus on the two others. He'd already failed Greg and Molly. He wasn't going to fail those two as well. Also, Moriarty had hurt _them_ , had turned the game that he loved into something terrifying and nauseating. Again. He'd make sure that the man would pay, even if it was with Sherlock's own last breath.

With that thought fueling him on Sherlock stormed down the stairs and outside, blatantly ignoring what was up ahead of him in favor of focusing on being fast enough to beat the device's dying battery.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: The game is definitely on. And the winner is the last one breathing. (gulps) So basically EVERYONE has been pulled in, some more painfully than others. How will the story continue? What sort of 'cases' will Sherlock face?

DO LEAVE A NOTE down below. It'd make me insanely happy to hear from you! Even if it's ranting. (grins)

Okay, time to tune out for now. I really hope that I'll see you all next time!

Take care!


	5. This Blood on My Hands

A/N: I'm in a bit of a hurry BUT I'm determined to get this published. So, as a very wise person once said, 'Allons-y'! (grins)

THANK YOU, so very much, for your reviews and listings! Those really do warm my heart. It's nice to have all of you taking this journey with me.

Awkay, before I get any more mushy… Let's go! I really hope that you'll have a good ride.

* * *

This Blood on My Hands

* * *

Sherlock's head was positively fuming while he marched out of Bart's, barely noticing the brutal wind biting mercilessly at him. He tried to focus, attempted to remain detached enough to be able to function. It wasn't working very well.

The sound of seconds ticking away echoed in his mind, haunting every step he took.

All of a sudden he froze and frowned, noticing a cab pulling to a stop beside him. Yes, he was fairly gifted at inviting those seemingly from thin air. But not this good. Was re-creating 'A Study in Pink' Moriarty's idea of a joke?

The vehicle's door opened. A young man who seemed to have some Italian genes peered towards him, a very official looking file in hand. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?" a thickly accented voice inquired. Free of fear. This one didn't have any idea that he playing a part in a game, then.

Sherlock nodded stiffly.

The cabbie waved the file. "This is a bit weird, but… I was told to give you this. And a ride."

Sherlock's eyebrow bounced up. Chills ran up and down his spine. "A ride where?"

The cabbie shrugged. Those brown eyes looked at him like he'd just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. "He said that you'd know."

Sherlock weighed his options. Then came to the conclusion that he didn't have any. Well, he'd needed a ride, anyway.

As soon as he'd taken the backseat Sherlock snatched the file and opened it. All it contained was a crime scene photo, an address and a name. The name did ring a bell, albeit feebly. His hold on the item tightened slightly.

Lisa Winfrey, the one who Moriarty covered in explosives, the one he saved with solving the murder of Carl Powers. He couldn't save her this time.

Sherlock was so consumed by his thoughts that the dial tone of his cell phone startled him. The private number didn't surprise him. Still his skin crawled as he picked up. "Hello?"

The first thing he heard was a loud, badly shuddering sob. Then Mrs. Hudson's far too familiar voice. " _H-Hello, Sherly. Why… Why so formal?_ "

Sherlock's fist balled painfully tightly. The wrath rushing through him… It was suffocating in its force. "If you give her even a single bruise…!"

By then Mrs. Hudson was crying openly. So hard that it was difficult to comprehend the words she was desperately trying to choke out. " _You… You have two hours… Will you save her… or run for one of the blinking dots?_ " With that the phone-call was disconnected.

* * *

Spencer floated to something close to consciousness and found himself from a world of sheer agony. His leg hurt like hell, of course. Along that his skull felt like it'd been split in two. He moaned and shifted, instinctively trying to get up. Trying to get away. No matter how hazy his head was he knew that he needed to escape.

"Spencer, stop." The voice startled him. It took a very long moment until he remembered that he'd heard it before. A gentle hand grabbed his, making him jolt. "Shh… Just sleep, okay? I'll keep watch, I promise. Sleep."

Stubbornly Spencer forced his eyes to open just enough to distinguish a blurry figure. A long frown later his vision began to clear. He blinked sluggishly. "Garcia…?" How…? What was she doing here? White hot terror flooded through. _No, no, no, no…!_ They couldn't have…!

His companion, however, shook her head. The hallucination faded, revealing a very different face. Aaliyah, wasn't she? Why was it so hard to remember? "Whoever she is… Be glad that she isn't here." The doctor's squeeze on his hand tighened. "You have to rest, Spencer. Just close your eyes and sleep."

Spencer definitely didn't want to. Mainly because he had no idea if he'd be able to wake up again. But his body left him with fairly little choice over the matter. Everything was pitch black once more before he even realized that his eyes were about to close. It wasn't as terrifying as it should've been.

* * *

After meeting both Sherlock and Mycroft it was almost a shock to Derek, David, Penelope and Alex to discover just how… ordinary the people who raised them for most of their lives were. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes met them with the worry and fear of parents who just wanted their children to come back home safely. And there was plenty of tea, of course.

"Mycroft… He knows better than to stop answering my calls." Mrs. Holmes' hands shook while she took a sip of tea and she swallowed loudly. "That was how I knew that my boy…" She trailed off, clasping one hand to her lips while the other miraculously managed to not drop the cup.

Her husband grabbed her hand instantly and squeezed, his own eyes not quite dry.

Alex offered them a look of sympathy. David did as well, before continuing the questions. "And Sherlock?"

Mr. Holmes sighed, running his free hand through his hair. The haunted look didn't leave his eyes. "We haven't been able ot reach him, either." The man gave them his cell phone, trembling so badly that he nearly dropped it. "He sent this. Since then he hasn't answered our phone calls or texts."

Curious and deeply worried all at once the Americans took a look. The message consisted of two words. They were more than enough to send daggers of dread.

' _Vatican Cameos_ '

David gave the couple of sharp look. Suspicion was loud and clear in his eyes. "What, exactly, does this mean?"

A tear broke through and Mr. Holmes looked away, hiding his face with one hand. Mrs. Holmes, marginally more composed, looked at them with eyes that held a million emotions. "That someone's going to die. We've been preparing for Moriarty ever since receiving that." She gritted her teeth, lifting her chin. Her hold on her husband's hand tightened visibly. "That monster… He already almost killed both of our boys once. And now…" Her jawline was so tense that it twitched. She turned her gaze briefly, then looked back again. "Make sure that he pays, please. Make sure that this time he's the one who burns."

* * *

Mycroft had absolutely no idea how long had passed. It was impossible to keep track of time with pretty much all his senses taken away. His arms had eventually stopped hurting hellishly, which alone was an indication that it must've been more than a few hours. They were still cramping, though, and his legs wobbled pitiably. He didn't know whether he was awake or asleep anymore.

Once he was almost sure that he could sense Sherlock's presence. It was nothing but a brief moment, most likely fueled by his imagination. Still it sent him struggling, trying to break through the binds digging into his skin.

Where was Sherlock, anyway? What about Spencer? Were his brothers safe? Was _anyone_ safe? Mycroft had far too much time to torment himself with those questions because thinking was all he could do.

All of a sudden there was definitely a presence in the room. A breath of air brushed his skin, which had been deprived of touch, and he shivered, wanting to shrink away and lean forward at the same time. Instead he waited, his heart pounding painfully.

The hand brushing his face came as such a shock that he might've gasped or even yelped if he'd been able to produce a sound without tearing his mouth to pieces. Another shiver, clearly visible this time, crossed him while he waited for whatever was to come. Already knowing better than well that it most likely wouldn't be pleasant. The wait was pure torture, him being blind and deaf.

There was a warm breath against his face. It was impossible to tell if his companion was talking or just breathing erratically. The hand touched him again and he was almost sure that it belonged to a man. Was that cologne or was he imagining things…?

And then came the shockwave of pain.

Having had no way of seeing it coming it caught him completely off guard. Mycroft writhed and struggled against the natural desire to howl when the burning agony spread from his chest to all the way through him. Yet somehow the knowledge that he'd been marked permanently was far worse than any physical discomfort.

That was when the hand that touched Mycroft before moved. It seemed to cover almost half of his face. At first it was simply warm but the heat grew quickly, violently. And then the sheer agony swept him away completely.

* * *

Sally Donovan understood well why she wasn't allowed to investigate Greg's shooting. She was too close. And as hard as it was to keep her thoughts in line she was needed elsewhere. And that was why she found herself from the home of Lisa Winfrey and Theresa Kerns.

The last thing Sally expected to see was the billow of a well recognizeable black coat. And true enough, in a few moments none other than Sherlock Holmes himself stood before her. The picture of a hurricane. "Gregson called that there's been a murder."

Well, Gregson was in charge over this case, especially now that Greg was… Sally, however, hadn't known that the man consulted Sherlock as well. She frowned, some well justified worry and doubt rising. Her eyebrows furrowed. "Are you sure that you're fit to work on a case?"

Sherlock's eyes were wild, full of such fire than only a fool would've questioned. The detective lifted his chin. "I'm perfectly fine. Now tell me everything you assume important." He lifted his hand when her lips opened. "Briefly."

A couple of years ago Sally might've been insulted. Now she just didn't bother to trouble her head. "She was poisoned. We haven't established with what, exactly, just yet." She nodded at a colleague while leading the detective closer to the scene. "Her fianceé Theresa Kerns woke up this morning to find her dead. Miss Kerns is… still in the bedroom. She's refused to be taken away. Miss Winfrey's brother, Philip Winfrey, has been staying with them for a month now because of water damage done to his flat. He collapsed at the sight of her and was taken to a hospital."

Sherlock nodded, an unreadable expression upon his face. If the man found any of what she'd told interesting was impossible to tell. That was when they reached the bedroom.

It was exactly as it had been when Sally stepped out. Lisa was still dead. Theresa, an ER doctor who was about ten years younger than her partner, sat slumped to a plush chair, her face buried into her hands. Her long, reddish brow curly hair was a mess and her petite frame was the picture of fatigue. Her trembling had turned into something that looked like muscle spasms. She was slurring out of exhaustion while retelling the story to a young officer with large, sad brown eyes who looked remarkably like a younger Gregory Lestrade. "… wasn't breathing and I…" She took a gasp like breath. "I… I don't understand…! Last night she was making tea, we were all happy. We've been feeling ill lately and…" She trailed off.

The officer offered her a look of sympathy. Still some suspicion lingered on his face. It was clearly obvious why. If Lisa had indeed been poisoned they had little more than two suspects. "Do you have any idea who might've done this to her?"

Theresa, of course, heard the unvoiced question. Her eyes blazed before filling with tears. "I… I know that I'm suspicious, especially because I'm a doctor. But… Although she wasn't the same after Moriarty… Phillie and I both loved her, very much. I would've never…" She winced, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" With those words as her final testimony she left the room, stumbling a little as she went.

Sally's attention turned towards Sherlock. He watched Theresa's departure with keen interest before returning his attention towards the deceased. Then he nodded, mostly to himself. "Right." His coat billowed angrily as he turned and took his leave. "I need to process all the data away from all these idiots bustling around. I'm not planning on missing everything of importance."

Sally felt a slash of irritation but it didn't live long. Her eyebrow arched. "What do you mean?"

"Things like the rash, Donovan." His voice dripped with annoyance. "Her rash."

Surprised, Sally turned her gaze sharply towards Lisa's body. Her eyes widened when she noticed that indeed, there was rash on what she could see of the woman's hands and arms. When she turned to look towards Sherlock the detective was gone.

* * *

When John woke up the room was uncomfortably bright. He groaned and buried his face into his hands, willing the dizziness to go away. Hazy, uncomfortable memories rose immediately.

Sherlock's fall. Being told that the man was still dead. Hearing the baby that never even existed crying.

Was he really losing his mind?

John didn't know what force it was driving him on. But pushing his physical and emotional strength to the extreme he forced himself out of the bed and into motion. His legs wobbled, almost gave out underneath him, but somehow he was able to make his way to the kitchen's doorway. And that was where he froze. At first all color drained from his face while his heart forgot entirely what it was supposed to do. As though in slowed motion he slid to his knees.

There, on the floor… Shards of broken glass, droplets of water and blood… The stench of the attacker's cologne still lingered thickly in the air, making him want to throw up. Eric Collins had just left. Just like in those nightmares… They weren't a dream at all, were they?

"John?" The unfamiliar woman's voice startled him so badly that he shuddered. He turned his head so quickly that his neck hurt. The pair of deep blue eyes he met couldn't be read. A small woman with wild, shortcut dark brown hair was approaching him cautiously. "John, I need you to stay calm. Alright? I need you to stay with me."

John's eyes narrowed. Crushing grief and overwhelming rage clashed and grew in his aching chest. "Who the hell are you?" he hissed. Every little bit of his being prepared to fight.

The woman didn't seem taken aback. Or maybe she just hid it well. "I'm Emilia. Remember? Emilia Tallis. Your new therapist." She stopped, clearly realizing that even the slightest move towards him would be crossing a line. Her eyes were sad. "We've met twenty two times already. I would never hurt you."

John couldn't remember her. At all. All that made sense to him was that Mary was nowhere to be found and something was badly, horribly wrong. This woman, this stranger, appeared out of nowhere and no matter how foggy his head was John recognized that something was out of place. Was it his mind? Or the situation itself? He wished that he knew.

"John." Dr. Tallis took a very cautious step closer. "Focus on me, alright? Keep your eyes fixed on me." Those horrible words…! "Do you know where you are?"

John opened his mouth. Heated words burning his tongue like acid. And then, slowly, he shook his head. Because now that he thought about it he really, honestly had no idea.

Dr. Tallis took a deep breath. Did it shudder? "Look around, John. Really, properly."

Reluctantly, far from trusting, John did as ordered. The broken glass was still there. But the flat… It wasn't the one he'd fallen asleep in with Mary. His heart jumped and his head spun dangerously for a second.

It was 221B.

John wasn't sure what made him do so. But slowly, a horrible dread growing and swelling within, he looked down. Towards his hands. What he saw there made him want to throw up.

His hands, both of them, were covered in already dried blood and there wasn't a scratch on him.

Mistrust making room for sheer terror John turned towards Dr. Tallis. His eyes wide and his hands eerily steady. "What… What have I done?"

Dr. Tallis shook her head. There was a breath of real, genuine fear in her eyes. "I don't know."

* * *

The second time Spencer woke up he was far more coherent but the pain wasn't lessening at all. He moaned and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Even attempted to sit up although his feeble motions didn't get him anywhere.

Aaliyah was there instantly. The gaze she directed at him was that of a strict professional but despite her best attempts she couldn't quite hide the true feelings shining through. "Careful. Your head won't be able to handle anything brash. And I don't want you to pull the stitches."

His head… Something had been done to it… His hair had been shaved off, he could feel it. There was definitely a wound which made him imagine that his skull had been cracked open. His hand and leg also hurt hellishly. Pure hell, all of it. And it was only just getting started. For him and others. How long had he been down? What had the Moriarty twins done in the meantime?

Spencer gritted his teeth. "Give me something." It was the most dangerous request he could've made. But he also knew that he had no other choice. The twins wouldn't be content playing just with him. He had far too many people he cared about to take the risk of the criminal mastermind's attention being directed towards them.

Was it possible that Moriarty knew what Hankel did to him? And what he did to himself afterwards? Was he playing this sick game exactly the way that pair of psychopath's wanted him to?

Aaliyah's eyes filled with alarm. She swallowed loudly, knowing better than well the sacrifice he was making. "Spencer…"

"I'm not going to lay here and die." Spencer didn't sound like himself, at all. Just as well. He didn't feel like himself, either. His fists balled so tightly that nails nearly dug through skin. He couldn't meet the doctor's eyes. "I need to be able to move. Fast, because they won't wait around. So I… I need your help." For the sake of everyone he held dear.

Aaliyah sighed. "You know the risks. The damage…"

"Please." Spencer most certainly wasn't above begging. Not now. The mental image of Henry's face was burning in the back of his suddenly stunningly clear mind.

Aaliyah stared at him, obviously wondering if he was serious. Then nodded, her solemn face providing fairly little comfort. The wait for her return felt endless and with each passing second Spencer understood more clearly just what was ahead of him.

When Aaliyah eventually came back she was holding a syringe. Her eyes were swimming with grief and apologies. "Are you sure?"

Spencer nodded firmly, mainly because he couldn't trust his voice. He refused to look when she prepared the injection, then got to work. She made sure that the prick of a needle didn't hurt physically but there was nothing she could do about the other ache.

Whatever she gave him was strong. The rush came almost instantly and he had to bite back a gasp when the entirely too familiar feeling wrapped around him like a blanket. They both remained perfectly silent and still for a few minutes, waiting for it to kick in.

"How do you feel?" Aaliyah inquired at last, her voice unreadable.

Spencer swallowed. He didn't like the taste in his mouth. "It doesn't hurt as much." Well, it was partially true.

"Good." Of course she saw through his lie. As it was she didn't call him out on it. Instead she leaned closer, obviously to help him up. "Ready?"

"Ready." As ready as anyone could ever be. His heart was thumping painfully fast.

But as it turned out Aaliyah didn't help him up. Instead she pushed him back down firmly, the apology in her eyes intensifying to a full-fledged plea. "I'm sorry", she whispered. Somehow the second injection succeeded in hurting almost as much as getting shot.

And he knew nothing but darkness.

* * *

As very often before Sherlock sought refuge and answers from the safety of 221B. Trying not to feel the device Moriarty gave him burning in his coat pocket, trying not to remember that the three dots were running out of time, he attempted to focus on this case. On saving Mrs. Hudson from the hell that he'd pulled them all into.

What was he missing? Something was very wrong. What…?

And then the puzzle pieces began to fit together while his mind connected the most subtle of all hints together.

Lisa had been scratching the skin around her engagement ring so hard that she'd torn wounds. There was no rash visible, there. An obvious stress reaction, then. The skin irritation was the clearest post mortem symptom. Theresa did say that they'd all been feeling sick.

All of them, yes. There were Theresa's symptoms to consider as well. The muscle spasms. _Her_ rash. The slurred speech. Headache. Difficulties with walking. Sherlock had seen all of those signs before. Mercury poisoning, highly likely. He could've been wrong. He knew that he wasn't.

Plus, of course, there were the hints of a very different secret. The signs of guilt and sleepless nights on both Lisa and Theresa. The way Theresa kept subconsciously rubbing her stomach, shielding the secret growing inside. The tender little nickname to her fianceé's brother didn't speak even nearly as loudly as her tone.

Yes, the puzzle was coming together very, very nicely.

'… _Last night she was making tea, we were all happy_ …'

'… _She wasn't the same after Moriarty_ …'

The rash was the most violent on Lisa's hands. She'd been handling the poison. For who knows how long she'd been poisoning herself, her fianceé, her brother and their unborn baby. How sick and twisted love could become…!

* * *

/ _"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock."_ /

* * *

Sherlock snorted. Even felt the tiniest hint of satisfaction. "Now that, John, is where you've got it wrong", he murmured.

It took a few moments before he managed to make his head focus on the game. Hurriedly he took his cell phone and dialed numbers. "I've got it", he announced as soon as the other end picked up. "It was the victim. Lisa Winfrey. She killed herself."

The sound of Mrs. Hudson crying hysterically was a warning enough. She could barely speak. " _T-take a look at the c-clock, Sherly… You're ten seconds late._ "

Sherlock's eyes widened. If he wasn't sitting he would've definitely fallen to his knees. His supposedly nonexistent heart was beating furiously, stretching beyond its limits and breaking. "NO…!" _No, no, no…!_

" _Sherlock, I… I'm so sorry, dear!_ " Those words were Mrs. Hudson's own. As were the never ending tears. " _I…!_ " Her sentence was cut short by the blast of a deafeningly loud explosion.

Sherlock couldn't think. Could barely breathe. Couldn't comprehend any of this. And then he got a text message.

' _Take a look at the device, sexy._ '

Numb from shock and paralyzing grief Sherlock obeyed. Right before his dazed eyes one of the green dots died out. Disappeared from existence. Another text soon followed.

' _Didn't I tell you? I have more of your heart in this game than you knew. You already lost one and one has been beyond your reach from the start. Tick, tock, Sherly. Two more are waiting._ '

Sherlock wished that he could've screamed. Exploded. Anything. Moriarty wasn't quite done.

' _I hope that you're ready for company._ '

Sherlock barely had the time to process those words before the flat's door opened. He turned his head just in time to see Aaron and JJ. For a moment he stared, not quite able to comprehend how they could be there. His attention, however, locked on the third arrival.

Emily Prentiss's eyes were dark. Her expression was even more so. "Hi, Sherlock. Long time no see."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: The game just keeps getting more and more horrible… Seriously, is anyone going to live through this one? (winces)

PLEASE, do leave a note! Thoughts? Comments? Threats? The box down below is waiting for those.

Until next time, ya all! I REALLY hope that you'll all join in then.

Take care!


	6. Hit Me With Your Best Shot

A/N: Yup, it's Friday. Which means that I owe you an update! (A cheap pun, I know, heh.) First, though…

Thank you, a thousand times over, for your reviews and support! I'm enjoying typing this story far more than I probably should, considering the content. And you're an awesome audience! (HUGS)

Awkay, now that the mushy stuff is out of the way… Let's roll! I truly hope that you'll enjoy the… hurricane, I suppose, to come.

* * *

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

* * *

Philip Anderson didn't know how long he'd been blacked out, knocked down by a single pint, when he came to with a loud gasp. His eyes darted around furiously, trying to recognize the space around him. Where had he seen it before? What was going on?

"Ah, so you're finally awake! Good." Following the voice he found a woman he'd never seen before. Her smile might've been sweet if it wasn't for the gun pointed at him. "Now… I'm sure that you remember this game. You have two options. Either you take a bullet…" She pushed two pills towards him. "… or one of these." She tilted her head. "Are you going to try your luck?"

* * *

The whole 221B was almost eerily quiet in the aftermath of Sherlock having told the whole story. Of all the deaths. Of all the people missing. Of all the pieces of his heart that were either in the pits of hell or already lost. And although he didn't let a thing slip to his voice or expression the tiniest spark of despair screamed what he was too proud to voice.

' _Please help me._ '

JJ swallowed and look down. She appeared nauseated in the grips of the new knowledge. "This… is a lot worse than we expected."

Sherlock nodded sharply. His gaze was focused on the skull sitting loyally on the mantelpiece as he attempted to ground himself, to take enough distance to be able to function. But how was he supposed to be able to do that when…?

Emily's feather light touch on his hand came as such a surprise that he shivered. Looking up with venomous, questioning eyes he found sincere sympathy and sadness. "I'm sorry." She was the only one in the room who knew just how much he'd lost, really. During his two year mission to demolish Moriarty's web they'd seen some of the most horrific places together. She'd seen him at his worst. She'd seen the heart that he claimed he didn't have over the course of feverish, delirious nights that he wouldn't have survived alone.

Sherlock just nodded, unwilling to say a thing when they had audience. This wasn't the time for sentiment, anyway. This was the time to fight back.

It didn't require a lot of deduction skills to see how badly Aaron and JJ would've wanted to ask. How curious they were of his connection to Emily. But those stories would have to wait and they all knew it. "Garcia's already hacked into the CCTV system", Aaron announced instead, putting away his cell phone. A firm team leader, despite everything there was at stake. "So far there hasn't been a trace of them but it's only a matter of time."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "We need to find them quickly." For now the twins had fun using what was left of his heart as pawns. He preferred not imagining what'd happen when the lunatics eventually grew bored.

"We will." There was steel hard resolve in JJ's eyes. Or was it despair? Sometimes it was so hard to tell the difference. "We have Mycroft's men, our team and you. The twins… They're brilliant and dangerous. But they're only men. They can be brought down."

In a matter of seconds their cell phones bleeped simultaneously. They exchanged glances of alarm before taking a look. The one worded message sent an icy shiver of realization down Sherlock's spine.

' _WRONG_ '

JJ swore under her breath, looking around. "What…? Is he watching us?"

Sherlock's jawline tightened. "Obviously." He kept looking at the skull and finally saw it. A steadily blinking red light. The three agents shuddered but didn't make a sound when he took his gun, aimed and fired. His oldest friend exploded to pieces.

Moriarty, of course, responded instantly. ' _Such violence! I'm shocked._ ' He barely had the time to read the first message when another followed. ' _Now… Round two. Two victims. Kitty Riley. Philip Anderson. Suicide by poison._ ' Nauseating pictures were included. A yet another eerie taunt came very quickly. ' _Will poor Dr. John Watson be number three? Or will the great Sherlock Holmes get to him before it's too late? Tick tock goes the clock._ '

Sherlock really, honestly could barely think. The whole world tilted a little as he stared at those words. Understood the meaning behind them.

"Sherlock." Emily's eyes were sharper than any knife. "Go. We'll find Reid and Anthea's team is after Mycroft. And when they're safe…"

Sherlock's gaze turned into that of a dangerous hunter. "We destroyed them once. We'll do it again." He just hoped that they'd be able to do that while there was still something left of his already charred heart.

* * *

Mycroft was fairly sure that he'd lost consciousness at some point. With or without the aid of his captors he couldn't really tell. All of a sudden he returned to his full senses at the feel of metal underneath him. The shockwave of relief at not hanging in the air any longer was quick to make room for a far more alarming discovery. This metal around him… He knew a coffin when he felt one. There was a pair of hands working on him, preparing him for the inevitable.

So perhaps his mind and body were both weakened by this resent nightmare. But Mycroft still recognized this as his only chance. And he'd be damned if he didn't fight, with how much he had to lose.

He waited patiently, remained completely immobile, until he could tell that the mystery person was focused on his legs. Whatever had been binding them loosened, bringing a horrible sting as blood began to flow. Mycroft bit through the discomfort with all his willpower. Didn't even twitch. Like a good hunter waiting for the perfect chance.

Apparently satisfied with the work thus far and most likely imagining that he was unconscious the person preparing him moved on to his wrists. The sheer agony of them being almost entirely unleashed nearly made Mycroft black out in earnest.

But that was when the other made a mistake. A warm breath leaned closer, whispering something. Despite not being able to hear or see a thing Mycroft recognized one of the words. It was more than enough to give him the spark that he needed. ' _Sherlock._ '

Mycroft didn't waste a second because his prey was finally close enough. Pushing forward every single ounce of strength his body had he prepared, then used his abdominal muscles to lunge his upper body off the metal surface. The agony his abused muscles howled was nothing compared to the satisfaction he felt upon succeeding in headbutting the unsuspecting stranger. The strike was sealed by a punch that carried absolutely all the force there was in his body. He felt a gratifying breath of air when the person went down. There was no further movement.

Mycroft knew that there'd be others. So, as fast as he could, he loosened the straps still around his wrists and sighed with contentment upon feeling them fall off. Satisfied with the progress he began to work nearly frantically on the fabric wrapped around his eyes. His fingers were clumsy and it took several precious seconds too long before it fell off. What he discovered made his stomach lurch.

He still couldn't see a thing.

Fortunately, because mercifully would've been overstating it, he didn't have the time to fret about that for long. Because just then he felt the metal underneath him vibrate with the rhythm of fast approaching running steps, several pairs of them. And these new companions were going to be hostile. His men wouldn't have approached so loudly.

Mycroft gritted his teeth and took a deep breath, then reached out towards where he knew his now unconscious companion's gun to be. He wasn't about to let them chain him and lock him into the box of steel without a fight. So he raised the firearm, aimed towards the direction in which a breath of air indicated the door to be and waited with patience that he didn't really have until he felt it open.

* * *

John couldn't remember much of the time that immediately followed him discovering his hands bloodied. Emilia, assuming that it really was her name, kept talking to him. Perhaps even dragged him to a shower.

"It'll be alright, John, it'll be alright…"

Of course it wouldn't be and she knew it. John wanted to throw up but couldn't. Instead he drifted, without the slightest clue of what was real or not. At some point he could've sworn that he heard Sherlock's voice. And then the baby was crying again, shattering him piece by piece. Finally he locked himself into a toilet. Even though he scrubbed his hands to a point where his skin turned red and raw the blood just didn't seem to go away. Eventually he gave up and simply leaned against the sink, gasping for breath while there wasn't enough air in the space around him. Everything inside him was torn and breaking apart.

He had no idea how Emilia got in. He barely even noticed her entrance or the needle that she carried. "Don't worry, Johnnie. You'll feel better in a moment."

The next time John opened his eyes he lay in the corner of a room that he couldn't recognize. Dazed and confused he pushed himself to a sitting position, fighting furiously to bring some sense into everything. His heart skipped when his head eventually made the connection.

It was the room where Sherlock and the cabbie met, once upon a time. In some other life. The symbol of where it all really began. The symbol of everything that was now destroyed. Possibly a fragment of his imagination.

Emilia, who'd been looking out the window before noticing his movements, frowned. She seemed almost genuinely worried. "John? Is everything alright?"

Another woman spoke just as John had pushed himself to his feet. "Sentiment, is all." He turned his head just as the arrival walked in. "Don't look so heartbroken, love." That voice was very familiar and all wrong at the same time. There was an ice cold little smile on Mary's face as she approached. "This will all be over soon."

John could only stare. His head was screaming warnings, all his instincts signaled that something was horribly wrong. Or was his imagination playing tricks with him again? How was he supposed to be able to tell what was real and what wasn't?

Mary, assuming that it really was her, looked towards the woman who claimed to be his therapist. "Thank you, Emilia. You did well. I'll take it from here." She smiled sweetly at him and for a fleeting moment there was something almost familiar to it. "This is a private matter between a husband and wife."

Emilia nodded and left the room obediently, without a single bit of hesitation in her steps.

As soon as the woman was gone Mary focused fully on him, leaning closer. "Now, John… Since it's finally time to drop the act I suppose that the two of us need a talk."

John's eyes narrowed. His blood was boiling and his head swayed, everything spinning for a long moment. "You're not my wife", he hissed.

She shook her head with a pitying look on her face. "The woman you imagined to be your wife… She never even existed. Mary Morstan was a stillborn, remember?" The killer tilted her head. "So… As it is you have two options. You're unarmed but you can still leave and try to find those ghosts that probably don't even exist. Including Erik Collins. Or you can stay and maybe have an answer to everything."

* * *

John, of course, couldn't possibly know that at that exact same moment a man in a far too familiar black coat rushed towards a equally familiar building. What alarmed him was that the device in his irony hold showed no blinking dot nearby. Also, the new, fully metallic door blocking his path was locked. Impenetrable. There was a small street, which could've as well been a canyon, separating the building from the nearest one. And he had no idea if he could cross it in time.

"JOHN!"

* * *

Spencer, despite the fogginess of his head making it next to impossible to think about anything, was surprised to wake up. Stunned that he was able to breathe. He blinked slowly, a white ceiling filling his line of vision.

What…?

"I see that you're awake." Aaliyah's tone was impossible to read. Turning his head he saw her approaching with a syringe. If him flinching affected her in any way she didn't let it show. "You should take it easy. You just almost died on me. Give your body a moment."

Spencer gulped laboriously, struggling to make sense of what was going on. His head refused to co-operate and it took him a second too long to understand why. He wasn't in pain. She'd given him the good stuff, then. His chest felt like an elephant had been dancing on it, though.

Had he been resuscitated again…?

Clearly seeing some of the questions spinning in his mind from his eyes she went on, her eyes on the injection she was preparing. "You were planning on escaping so I had to sedate you. You ended up having an allergic reaction. Someone had left out an allergy from your medical file." She turned towards him, met his eyes. Did she just… wink at him? "Now stay nice and still, maybe then this won't hurt. I want to help you with the pain."

Spencer didn't say or do anything, mainly because he was in no condition to. Somewhere behind her a door opened and closed when whoever had been observing them left. Probably bored now that he was out of the woods.

* * *

Upon leaving the room Erik Collins managed to startle the infuriatingly young, sandy haired man who'd been supposed to keep guard. The boy blinked quickly, obviously having nearly fallen asleep. "So, uh… All good?"

Erik smiled warmly. So swiftly and subtly that the other couldn't notice his gaze scanned the space around them. No other guards were coming. He'd made sure that the security cameras had been out of order for the past five seconds. "Yes", he confirmed in a tone that was close to purring. "All is very well, Nicholas." Then, before the youth's lips had the chance to open, he pulled out his gun and fired. Through a silencer it wasn't much more than a breath.

Nicholas exhaled rapidly, his eyes flying wide from shock. A second later a trail of blood trickled from the wound on his forehead. The young man fell like a sack of potatoes.

Erik wrinkled his nose. "Waste of space", he muttered. Without looking back he began to head calmly towards his next target.

Erik whistled as he went. He had some… unfinished business to take care of. And he was going to enjoy every second of it.

* * *

As soon as the door shut Aaliyah leaned to Spencer's ear. "This room has no cameras or voice recorders. But we have to be fast. Those bastards aren't going to give us long." She held her breath when there was a thud in the hallway. She didn't relax until after eight seconds of utter silence. Neither did he. "I'm sorry, Spencer. But that was the most guarded room in this whole building. I had to get you away from there, to this room, because this is our only chance." She gritted her teeth. "I'm going to give you shot. It's going to hurt but I need you to work with me. Do you understand?"

Spencer nodded as fiercely as he could, his whole being free of all doubt. She was right. This was the only shot they were going to get.

Aaliyah took a deep, unnaturally steady breath and he found himself mimicking it. Their eyes locked and held. He was vaguely aware of the fact that she was distracting him. And then she struck him with the needle.

The injection itself was quite brutal. The shock to the system the actual substance provided was even more so. Spencer emitted a rather loud, half furious, half pained groan. Aaliyah was quick to press a hand to his mouth. He was barely able to comprehend that they couldn't risk arousing any unwanted attention. He writhed, balled his fists, kicked. And then, at last, the shot honestly kicked in.

Aaliyah watched him carefully as his breathing pattern changed and his whole body tensed up in a far different way from before. "Good to go?" Her tone was sharper than a whip.

Spencer nodded, pushing himself up. The sheer agony he'd been in before was oddly numb, hollow. His whole body was tingling. "Yeah."

Aaliyah nodded back, appearing satisfied with his answer. Before he realized what was happening she'd placed a gun to his hand. He was stunned to notice that it was his own service weapon. She met his surprised look with a smirk. "I saw it on one of those idiots. Figured that it wasn't his." She shrugged, making sure that the firearm she'd gotten for herself was ready for action. "What? I've been a pickpocket since I was five. Even doctors get bored."

Spencer analysed the data for a moment, then decided that it could wait. As could fretting over the very disturbing fact that he seemed to be missing a finger. Their departure couldn't. Carefully, testing his feet, he slid to the floor and took his first tentative steps. He was pleased to discover that his legs carried him firmly. Without another word they hurried to the room's only door. Eyes on each other Spencer lifted one hand and three fingers, she replied with a firm nod. One by one his fingers went down. With the last one against his palm he opened the door and peered outside, adrenaline making his heart hammer furiously. His eyes widened at what he discovered.

There on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, lay who seemed to be the hallway's only guard. Very much dead. But who…?

Well, Spencer wasn't going to waste time on wondering that for too long. He gritted his teeth, then turned towards Aaliyah. "Let's go", he hissed. "We can't have long until the others get there."

He was about to take off when Aaliyah grabbed his sleeve and shook her head. "No. This way. Trust me."

Spencer really wasn't sure if he should. Tightening his hold on his gun he walked beside her. They took the opposite way from Erik's.

* * *

Anthea's hold on the small device in her hand was firm and stubborn while her hawk's eyes observed it. "We're close", she practically breathed out, knowing that unwanted listening ears might still be anywhere. According to the signal of Mycroft's micro chip, which had finally agreed to activate an hour earlier, the government official was less than two minutes away.

As slowly and carefully as they could afford her team made their way onwards. There were two guards keeping an eye on a heavy, metallic door. They were no challenge against her team of five agents. With swift, confident steps Anthea turned and waved at the security camera that was filming them, then grabbed a key from one of the corpses and opened the door.

They had about sixty-two seconds, at most, before Moriarty's reinforcements would arrive.

Still prepared for traps or any other imaginable nasty surprises she slid in, quickly followed by the four others. They all fought back the intense urge to gag when the stench of burned flesh hit them like a pile of bricks. Her heart taking several extra beats a minute she flicked on the lights. Soon she wished that she hadn't.

Mycroft wasn't there anymore. Instead they saw the binds that'd trapped him, along with a chillingly large pool of blood that hadn't dried yet. In the middle of it she could faintly distinguish the micro chip. There was one unconscious man, a woman who'd had a bullet slam right through her throat and a man who'd most likely taken a bullet straight to his abdominal aorta. But no Mycroft Holmes and the signs all around them screamed that he hadn't been taken willingly. They'd missed him with mere minutes.

* * *

John could've run away, of course. He should've run away. At least tried to, although he had a feeling that it'd only earn him a bullet to the back. But his knees felt dangerously weak and his head was spinning. And he wanted to see this through, now that he had nothing but his own life left to lose. So he slumped to the chair in front of him.

"You…" He closed his eyes, hard, then forced them open again. The image before him wavered, swam in and out of focus. Nothing made sense. "Where's _my Mary_?"

The woman chuckled. She seemed annoyed. "Oh John… How many times do I have to tell you? Your Mary never even egisted. You were merely an experiment to me." Those eyes… The color was off, as was the size. But there was no lie in them.

Which version was real? The one in his head, with him and Mary married, truly and honestly in love, with a baby on the way? Or this stone cold assassin looking at him in the eye and claiming that she didn't care about him? Was this all a dream?

John swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. He tasted tea and something far more bitter. His eyes stung hellishly, the web of lies he was struggling through tightening around him until it was suffocating. "Mary…"

The woman shook her head and sighed. "It's about time we're introduced properly. My name is Anna." She tilted her head, seemed to enjoy the situation if the twinkle in her eyes was anything to go by. "Do you remember how we met?"

John looked down. He couldn't stare at those stranger's eyes anymore, couldn't bear the way they were tearing some of his most precious memories to shreds. "Of course I do."

* * *

/ _John remembered walking home from a pub, feeling at least twenty years older than his age._ _All he wanted was to get home and sleep the upcoming year away. Instead he froze at the sight of five men waiting for him. He recognized them quickly as thugs he and Sherlock had helped arrest. They'd been released after Sherlock had been declared a fraud, all evidence against them crumbling apart. Now they were looking at him with sneers._

 _And then John woke up to the entirely too familiar smell of a hospital. He groaned, tried to shift. His ribs and arm were quick to announce that it was a very bad idea._

 _"Easy, soldier. You gave those idiots a run for their money but got quite the beating in return." Finally managing to get one of his eyes halfway open he found a kind faced nurse looking at him. She offered him a smile of sympathy. "We'll take a good care of you. I know that it hurts but it'll be alright, John."_

 _Looking into her eyes, it occurred to John's dazed mind that for the first time since Sherlock's fall he found it possible to imagine that maybe, eventually, things would indeed be okay again._ /

* * *

Mary – Anna, or whatever the hell her name was – chuckled. The sound tore at his heart almost as badly as the words that followed. She took the chair across his, leaned her chin to one hand. "You saw the killer in my gaze, already then. I said 'danger' and you rushed to follow."

For several seconds John could only stare. "He's dead because of… you, and Moriarty." He couldn't bring himself to voice the name, especially to her. "Why am I still alive?"

"'He' who? Sherlock?" She snorted. "Oh, Johnnie… That man was nothing but a cheap trickster. A narcissist that enjoyed the attention you gave him. Nothing more. Didn't he tell you so himself? It was all an illusion. One big, sick magic trick. Him asking you to tell everyone that it was all a lie… It was the only honest thing he ever said to you. Did you really believe in that ridiculous show of his? Did you really imagine that he cared? You were a spectator to his circus, nothing more."

John's head was much too blurry to process it all properly. The only thing he was able to comprehend was that little by little memories that he'd imagined real began to fall apart. Sherlock saving him from the bonfire… His wedding… Sherlock's speech… Mary shooting Sherlock… The two of them solving crimes together once more…

He should've known… Should've realized… It was nothing more than a dream, a hallucination. His life with Sherlock had been nothing but an act from a bad theater play. A puppet, a pet… Was that all he was? The thought hurt far more than hearing that he'd never be a soldier or a surgeon again. Because he'd had a best friend, a wife and a baby on the way and now, once again, he had nothing.

/ _"I don't have friends."_ /

/ _"It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."_ /

She shrugged, then finally answered his earlier question. "You're alive because I was bored and wanted to play a little game with you. I'm sure that you'll recognize this one." Very calmly two tiny bottles were pushed towards him. Both of them contained a single pill. She tilted her head. "So… Which one is yours?"

John wasn't kidding himself. He was fairly sure that he was already dead. And even if he wasn't… What did he have to lose? Never once breaking eye contact with her he reached out, his shattered heart beating madly in his chest.

* * *

Sherlock didn't even try to scream again. He knew that there was no way John would be able to hear him. For two vital, wasted seconds he stared, the kind of terror he experienced very rarely paralyzing him. That was when he became very aware of the gun pressing against his leg.

He had exactly two options. He could wait and watch John gamble with his life. Or he could do what John did for him, when they were mere strangers. Now, after all the time passed and with everything they'd gone through together, he finally understood why the former soldier pulled the trigger instead of letting him play.

John's hand was already reaching out towards the left pill. The doctor's eyes, oddly hazy, were locked on the woman's. Trying to see and deduce. She wasn't giving away anything. By the time John's hand twitched right Sherlock's body began to function.

Hoping and, although he most certainly wasn't a praying man close to begging, Sherlock swallowed loudly and raised the gun. Wishing with all his being that his aim would be as sharp as John's. That the gun training the former army medic had given him was enough. And fired.

* * *

Adam Dimmock was having a massive headache. Moriarty was quite obviously back. He had Greg's shooting and Molly Hooper's murder to solve. Along with an explosion that quite recently killed a woman whose DNA-remains hadn't been processed yet. Hard as he worked it seemed that he and his team were running around in circles.

And then James Moriarty walked right in, merrily as someone meeting an old friend.

Adam couldn't help but stare at the man sitting in the interrogation room. The criminal mastermind was humming serenely while stretching. The melody sounded like 'Staying Alive'. Adam hated that song.

Only Adam's eyes moved when steps walked closer and Sally Donovan stood beside him. For a few moments they both stared, trying to undestand this new twist. "How was Greg?" he inquired at last.

Sally shook her head, appearing painfully tense.

Adam nodded, feeling his spirits drop even further. Some good news would've been nice right about now. "Look…" He licked his lips. "I just heard about Phil a minutes seconds ago." He had a feeling that by then the news of Anderson's death were all over Yard. The man was, after all, once one of their own. "I'm sorry. I know that you two were…" He trailed off, unable to find the proper word.

The look Sally gave him suggested that he'd just crossed a line. She focused firmly on Moriarty. "So… He just walked in, huh?"

"Yeah." Adam's blood boiled. "He's aware that we've got nothing on him. Just knowing that he's behind everything isn't going to hold in court and he knows it."

"Bloody bastard…", Sally hissed.

As though hearing her Moriarty stopped humming and looked right at the glass separating them. There was a very pleasant look on the monster's face. "I know that you're keeping watch, so… Am I allowed to make a suggestion?" The man's new smirk was something truly terrifying. "I'm willing to answer five questions. Truthfully, I swear! I'll tell you whatever you want to know." Those dark eyes flashed. "But I'm only going to answer to Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Phew! Quite a bit of worrying spots, I guess. But at least there's finally hope! A rather impressive web is circling around the Moriarty twins and determined to make them PAY. The question goes, though… Will they all come out of this alive? Or sane?

Soooo… I've typed my piece. (smirks) The word's yours! Any good, at all! There's a rather adorable lil' box down below if you wanna let me know.

Awkay, time to go so I can publish this beast. I truly hope that I'll see you all with the next chapter of this tale!

Take care!


	7. One Step Closer…

A/N: Aside a particular scene (or well, double scene, but I had difficulties with deciding how I wanted a certain twist to go until I realized that it'd been crystal clear for ages, heh) this whole thing typed itself in a heartbeat. We'll see just what brewed… BUT, before getting there…

THANK YOU, so very much, for your reviews and support! It's been a wild ride, that's for sure. I'm really happy that you're all still on board. (BEAMS, and hugs)

Awkay, because I have a feeling that you'd like to get on with the story… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

One Step Closer…

* * *

Sherlock could barely watch as the bullet continued on its inevitable path. He didn't really want to know where it'd land. And then it met its mark, sinking hungrily into flesh. For four and three quarters of a second all was still. Then a body went down heavily, knocking a strangled gasp from Sherlock.

For a while John could only stare at the corpse. Then, slowly, the former soldier's wide, chillingly glassy eyes rose to meet his. It was impossible to tell what John saw but whatever it was, it brought on a look of disbelief and near terror. The doctor's lips opened but even a single word wasn't formed. The trembling man's face seemed to grow paler and paler.

And then the lights in John's room went out, obscuring him from view.

Sherlock barely noticed that the lights went out in his room as well. He screamed, the sound raw and animalistic as it broke through his strangely tight throat. "NO!" He'd been so very close and now…!

Before Sherlock could fully process what he was doing he was running. So what if it'd be next to impossible to get into the other building? He was far more than determined. He'd find a way, any way.

Only, he never made it that far. Because as soon as he dashed outside a police car pulled up and Adam Dimmock climbed out. Blocking his path. "Sherlock…"

His eyes narrowed with warning. "Whatever it is… Not now", he hissed. True, John didn't seem to have a blinking dot on his device. But he'd seen his blogger, very much alive! And he'd be damned if he…

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock didn't bother replying, instead he picked up pace. The first warning sign was that the previously bolted door was now ajar, taunting him. Not paying any mind to potential traps he barged right in, taking the stairs that followed soon three at a time. He sped on until he reached the correct room's doorway and halted violently.

It was completely empty. There wasn't a trace left of the woman he shot, not even a single drop of blood. And much more importantly, there wasn't a trace of John.

By then Dimmock had reached him, panting hard. It took a few seconds before the man was able to speak. "What…?"

"Stop talking", he snapped immediately, his eyes narrowing. The stinging sensation that took over them was horrendous. "Right now."

"Sherlock." Something about Adam's tone caught his attention. By then the man was breathing properly and there was a grim look on his face. "We… We have Moriarty. He's the one who told us where to find you. He… said that he's only going to talk to you."

Sherlock felt a violent slash of cold and raw fury go through him. His gun pressed firmly against his leg as he stared at the empty space that John just occupied. "Take me to him."

* * *

When Mycroft woke up next he wasn't startled by the darkness anymore. Wrong and upsetting as it was he'd somehow grown used to it. A far more unsettling issue was that now he wasn't tied in any way.

Moriarty's men wouldn't have made such a move unless they were convinced that he was already dead, anyway.

Despite his best efforts Mycroft's heartbeat sped up considerably, panic surging through like a river of ice. He reached out a hand, only to have it meet metal at every direction. That was where the sheer terror really spiked up.

That metal coffin he felt when he was last awake… This was it. They'd gone through with it. He pushed and shoved with all the strength there was in his legs and arms but the lid wouldn't budge even the slightest. He was effectively trapped with a very, very limited amount of air. Oxygen whiskers were hooked on his nose but Mycroft preferred not trying to guess how much air there was left.

Working with his all Mycroft attempted to push himself past the panic that was growing like wildfire. Through the agony that gnawed at his all in the aftermath of his outburst. Good, air conserving breaths. Stay calm. Focus.

But no amount of psyching himself erased the facts that he was buried alive and in a lot of pain. Somewhere in the back of his mind a cruel, torturous question rose. Nearly stealing whatever little air the oxygen tank was able to provide him with.

Was this how he would die?

* * *

Somewhere along the way Spencer stopped keeping count on how many Moriarty's men he and Aaliyah ran into. The commotion each meeting caused lured even more of them to the scene. But through kicks, punches and bullets they raged their way through. Both wanting to live so much that it swept over every wave of pain and exhaustion.

Under different circumstances he might've found it comical. A man with a gunshot wound, a missing finger and who knows what other injuries who just needed CPR taking down criminals. With her prosthetic leg Aaliyah wasn't exactly the most likely companion. Both of them were pushing themselves onwards with the sheer power of adrenaline. Pure insanity, all of it.

When two men attacked Spencer at once he knew that he wasn't going to get the upper hand. He fended off one of them with a mighty swat of his gun, aimed directly at the attacker's forehead. The second one turned out to be too much.

Spencer groaned as he fell, hitting his head so hard that he saw stars. At first a fist, directed firmly at his cheek, nearly made him black out. The hand wrapped around his throat brought him back to full awareness very quickly.

Spencer squirmed and attempted to gasp, fought back with every little bit of strength there was within him. The attacker, a large bald man with fierce midnight blue eyes, didn't appreciate his efforts. While one hand tightened on his windpipe the other crushed against his gunshot wound, almost hard enough to tear the stitches. Spencer froze instantly under the shockwave of agony and would've screamed if he could've.

The world was growing dark at an alarming speed. Spencer was quite sure that he didn't have long left. But then came the clap of a bullet. For a few moments the man strangling him stiffened unnaturally, a bizarre shocked expression taking place. Then fell unceremoniously and so quickly that only Spencer's reflexes helped him shove the giant elsewhere before the mountain of a man would've slumped on him. He gasped, his head still spinning, and tried desperately to figure out what just happened.

A few steps away, surrounded by three bleeding and lifeless bodies, Aaliyah gasped. One of her hands held a recently fired gun while the other squeezed against her side. Was that blood? Clearly she saw the flash of panic in his eyes. "Flesh wound, Spencer. You?"

Spencer gulped, assessing his body. The gunshot wound throbbed still and felt like it was bleeding again. His throat was on fire. But all things considered… "Fine." Only one word at a time, then. Alright. He blinked slowly, not liking the way the world was still spinning. "I…" That was when it all went downhill.

The swaying from before turned into sheer, unimaginable agony, like his head had been smashed with a sledgehammer. Or squeezed from all directions. He moaned and clawed at his temples, most likely tearing small wounds in a desperate attempt to make the feeling go away.

What the hell was happening?!

Aaliyah seemed to know. She swore loudly, then crashed to her knees beside him. "Spencer! Listen to me!" Her eyes were fierce and terrified all at once. And full of unhidden remorse. "We have to get out of here, to safety. Fast. Do you understand?"

Spencer stared for a moment. Panic making his heart race. Then _screamed_ when the pain spiked.

"Spencer!" Aaliyah wasn't shouting but it sounded as loud to his pounding skull. "We need help. You need help. Do you know anyone here in London we could contact? Anyone you trust?"

Spencer definitely didn't want to get any of his friends involved. But the pain tearing him to pieces made his tongue faster than his protective instincts. "Prentiss", he whimpered without a thought.

Aaliyah's eyes widened. Even in his current condition he was as shocked as she appeared by her following words. "Prentiss? Do you mean Emily Prentiss?"

* * *

A deep, dark silence lingered in the car that was speeding towards blinking dot number one's location, which Sherlock's text just updated. The wall of quiet wasn't broken until Aaron's cell phone announced a second new text message. The unit chief gritted his teeth at what he discovered. "That was Anthea. Level one of Moriarty's base has been destroyed." A beat passed by. "They… found DNA they assume to be Reid's."

The others shivered. David was the brave one to voice it. "DNA?"

Aaron focused furiously on the road ahead. His fingers squeezed the phone so hard that they began to shake. "Cut off hair. Blood."

The silence from before returned, heavier than ever before. Eventually JJ lifted her chin. If her eyes shimmered with moisture no one pointed it out. "We'll find him", she announced firmly. Stubbornly. Desperately.

Aaron nodded. Even opened his mouth, only to notice that nothing came. JJ added speed.

Aaron wanted to remain optimistic but it was incredibly hard when he knew that they were headed towards a cemetery.

* * *

The mood in the second vehicle, which was nearly flying towards the opposite direction with every bit of speed Derek managed to kick into it. None of them wanted to think about what they might face. Still it was all they could focus on.

Alex, who'd been keeping a sharp eye on both their navigator and Sherlock's text about their destination, stiffened. "We're close", she announced. At the exact same moment the device adviced them to turn right.

Derek wasted no time in doing exactly as he'd been told. The women didn't comment when the car swerved sharply for a second, barely under control. Time was ticking away.

They all jumped when Emily's cell phone began to ring. It took a few seconds before she managed to pick up, quick to put the speaker on first. "Hello?"

They all expected to hear Moriarty. Instead it was a far more familiar voice. " _Emily…?_ "

* * *

They'd been driving around for almost an hour, through which Sherlock kept casting glares at whom he considered his captor, until Dimmock finally pulled up to an empty spot outside the Yard. The man took a deep, steadying breath. "Look… A lot of people didn't agree with my decision." The DI's eyes met him, hard as steel. "Don't prove them right."

Sherlock didn't bother commenting. The gun was practically burning against his leg, despite the layer of fabric in between. "We've already wasted too much time", he snapped, even more harshly than he'd meant to. "Just take me there already."

Sally was waiting for them outside the interrogation room. She frowned upon looking at him, obviously seeing something in his eyes that she didn't like. Her attention shifted to Dimmock. "I still think that this is a very bad idea."

"Opinion noted." Dimmock's gaze wasn't exactly full of trust when it clashed with his. "We'll be watching you. If you…"

Sherlock interrupted the man with a dry, venomous look. In his head the seconds melting away kept echoing, taunting him. "You took away my only weapon as I entered, remember? And I wouldn't kill him while he's the only one who knows where John is." John, the only one missing without a blinking dot. The one and only thing keeping him from using his own bare hands to…

They said something but Sherlock caught none of it. He walked on like a robot, a million thoughts fighting over room. Until the door was opened and a surge of emotions came like a tsunami.

James Moriarty smiled, clearly pleased. The criminal even clapped his hands together with joy. "Sherly, finally! I was already beginning to worry that you wouldn't turn up. It would've been a disappointed if this visit had been a waste of time."

"Where's John?" Sherlock wasn't about to waste time on these stupid verbal battles. Not when his world was on the line. When there was no reaction apart from an arched eyebrow he went on with even less self control. "You promised me five questions, correct? There's the first one. Where… is… John?"

Moriarty nodded. "Yes, I did promise. And I even swore to answer truthfully." The psychopath held a brief pause, visibly enjoying every single bit of Sherlock's emotions bleeding through. "The honest answer is that I don't know. Well, he had…" Lips pursed. "… three, or possibly four, options, and by not running to you he eliminated one. Where he is now depends entirely on which one of the other alternatives he chose."

Sherlock fought the urge to gulp. Those words stung far worse than they should've. "Is he alive?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the answer, if he'd dare to listen to it.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Do I seem all knowing to you? I haven't even met him in years! It's all up to him, really. But whatever he decides to do…" The man's smirk chilled him to the bone. "No matter what you do, hard as you fight for him… The John Watson you knew will never, ever return. Even if you'd somehow manage to find him alive your precious little pet is already dead."

Those words triggered something primal and wild inside Sherlock. He slammed both hands against the table, so hard that the sound echoed like a gunshot. "What have you done to him?"

Moriarty frowned, appearing genuinely confused. "Done… to him? But I haven't even touched him." The man gestured at the space around them. "And I've been preoccupied, see?"

Sherlock took several deep breaths. Did his best to appear far calmer than he felt, even when he would've wanted to crush the other man with his fists. "How do I find him?"

"Aren't you the master of deductions of us two? You really should take a better care of your pet. First making him watch your suicide, then abandoning him for two years, then causing lovely Mary's death…" Moriarty clicked his tongue with disapproval, then yawned and stretched. "Your funny little head is exhausting me. Now, you have a one more question left. Use it well."

* * *

Mycroft found himself drifting. While worrying it wasn't exactly unexpected with how limited his oxygen supply was. His head didn't seem to be working properly.

At one point he could've sworn that he heard Sherlock shouting his name. And then it was his biological mother, calling out to him with a heart wrenching amount of sheer despair. Mycroft was trying to open his mouth to respond until he was reminded harshly of two very important things. Using his mouth hurt hellishly. And as it was he couldn't hear anything real. Somehow such a realization was far more devastating than his current situation. Which alone proved that his brain didn't seem to be working right.

Then the phantom sensations began. Feather lights touches. Something biting him. Something crawling on his skin. Caresses. Pinches. As much as Mycroft tried to tell himself that they were nothing but tricks of his imagination they were still very disturbing.

It was almost a relief when his consciousness faded away, at least for a little bit.

* * *

/ _Mycroft was only four years old but very much able to tell when a threat was real and when it wasn't. On a shadowy winter morning he realized that something was horribly wrong when he woke up to his biological mother pulling him out of his bed. He frowned, still trying to wake up properly and shaking under a storm of adrenaline. "Mommy…?"_

 _Her eyes were full of sheer terror. "You must hide, love. They're coming and I'm not going to let them have you, do you understand? I won't give them my son."_

 _Mycroft was only a child. The fear festering inside him flared and blossomed. "Who, mommy? What…?"_

 _He didn't have the time to ask anything further. Because just then he was shoved roughly to their tiny storage room that was barely big enough for their cleaning up equipment. His mother's eyes were wild and wide when she put a finger to her lips. "Not a sound, alright? Just stay quiet. I won't let them get to you."_

 _Mycroft's eyes flew wide. "Mommy, please…!" But the door was already locked._

 _Mycroft never found out for sure if the threat was there or not. But the suffocating panic he felt there, trapped and abandoned, was very much real. The entire time he kept scratching at the door, desperate to get out before the space's scarce air would suffocate him. "Mommy!" he whimpered, time after time. "Mommy, let me out! Mommy!"_

 _It wasn't until six hours later, when his father came home from work, the door opened. Mycroft was too far gone into a state of shock to hear the shouting match taking place downstairs. When his father finally opened the door he collapsed into the man's arms, his whole tiny body trembling with fear that was barely human._ /

* * *

Mycroft woke up to his own scream, barely. His head was even fuzzier than before and it was next to impossible to separate dreams from reality. He fidgeted once more, stubborn to the last, and wished with whatever consciousness he had left that he would've been able to scream. A constantly dimming part of his awareness screamed out that there was no longer oxygen coming through the whiskers.

Pain didn't matter anymore. With a desperate burst of pure rage Mycroft ignored the surge of agony it brought and unleashed a one more howl of wrath. He banged his fist on the metal above him so hard that it was a miracle no bone was damaged. Was he crying? How loud was he? It was strange to only feel his scream, rumbling from deep within his belly, lungs and throat.

Exhaustion was winning over again, this time the type he knew with grim certainty to be the final kind. He groaned and wrinkled his nose, not liking the taste of blood that filled his mouth. His whole body was trembling. Too stubborn to give up just yet.

 _Sorry…!_ Mycroft wasn't entirely sure who the thought of apology was for. Himself? Sherlock? Spencer? It didn't matter anymore.

In the dangerous wasteland of gray between life and death Mycroft opened his lips for a one last time, hollering his rage against the different kind of dark trying to creep on him.

How was he supposed to know that just then above the ground several pairs of running steps entered the cemetery? That friendly voices were calling out? How could he have known that salvation was less than twenty steps away, almost right on top of him?

* * *

A shockwave went through the whole car. And then time resumed, Derek looking at Emily as often as he could and the others staring at her. Like she was their sole remaining link to Spencer.

By then Emily had managed to regain some control over herself. Her breathing didn't sound quite right, though, and her eyes seemed just a little too wide. "Reid? Are you alright?"

Spencer emitted a sound they couldn't quite identify. He was also breathing heavily. Was he running? " _Yeah. A… A pretty bad headache, tough._ " The way it seemed to affect his speech told a lot. There was a pause during which he hissed in a way that tore at them all. " _Sorry, about calling. I didn't mean to…_ "

"Reid, we're already coming. We're almost there, okay?" She tried her hardest to sound reassuring which didn't come naturally. Especially when panic was squeezing her chest. How long would it take before they or the other half of the team reached him? "We'll be right there. I promise."

Spencer gulped. Loudly. " _Moriarty…_ "

"We know. We know everything they've done." A flash of relief overcame her when she noticed that the journey was almost over. "It'll be okay. We'll come and get you."

That was when they noticed two figures making their painfully slow march out of a building at their right. Emily barely even registered that the other one was a woman she hadn't seen in ages. All she had eyes for was Spencer. Spencer who seemed to be in great pain and had several injuries but was _alive_.

None of them paid any attention to how Derek parked. Faster than should've been humanly possible they were out of the vehicle, on their way to their youngest. Despite everything Derek chuckled at Spencer's shocked expression, more out of relief than anything else. "What? Did you really think that we wouldn't get you out of this? You wound me."

Despite his entirely too obvious agony Spencer smiled, just a little, his eyes watering. The young agent's lips opened but he never got the chance to voice what was on his mind. Because all of a sudden his eyes flew wide, filled with such pain and fear they'd never seen before. At that exact same time a thin trail of blood began to meander from his nose. And then, before they could do a thing, his eyes closed and he fell limply into Derek's arms.

* * *

Jim Moriarty was currently observing those events through a computer screen when he sensed that he was no longer alone. Peering over his shoulder he arched an eyebrow upon seeing Erik Collins. The assassin's eyes revealed his intentions far more clearly than any torture device or weapon ever could've.

"You never told me that she was pregnant. Anna. Mary. Whatever her name was. By the time I saw her and found out she was already dying", Erik growled, his eyes becoming hazardous. "Was that your idea of a practical joke?"

Jim sighed and rolled his eyes. "All that upset over a deceased colleague?" One of his hands was already sliding towards where his gun was hidden. "You and your silly principles… They're bad for business, you know?"

"Business?" Erik smirked and shook his head slowly. "Oh no, Jimmie. I'm doing this, all of this, purely for pleasure." A couple of threatening steps were taken towards him. "Crossing me… is very, very bad for business. And for staying alive."

Jim snorted. His fingers were already curling around a firearm. "Do you really imagine that I'm scared of dying?"

"No. But you should be very scared of what comes first." Erik's eyes flashed, sliding towards the mug Jim put down just before the contract killer entered. "Tell me, Jimmie… Did you like the special tea mixture Aaliyah made for you?"

Jim froze.

"A lesson you should've learned before it was too late." Erik sat down, as though preparing to enjoy a show. "Never play against someone unafraid of doing what it takes to crush you." Was that even a human being watching him? "You really shouldn't have brought Spencer into this game. Even wild animals kill when someone harms their young."

* * *

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed as the man and James stared at each other. James struck back with a sweet, flawless smile. Under different circumstances Sally might've found it highly entertaining. Not when several people were dead and missing.

And especially when Moriarty had the upper hand and they all knew it.

"This is fascinating, really", James admitted conversationally. The criminal's head tilted. "I don't think I've ever seen you that angry. And you once imagined that you don't have a heart…" A new, wicked smirk revealed a row of flawless teeth. "Tell me, Sherly… Doesn't it feel amazing to have all that rage flowing through your veins? Doesn't it make you feel ready to burn up the entire world, just to get rid of the itch?"

Sherlock stood up so swiftly that the chair he'd been occupying performed an impressive flight. Sally stiffened, fully ready to burst in. So did Dimmock. James didn't react, apart from the twinkle in his eyes gaining more spark.

Crank, wind and bend, until they break…

When Sherlock's fists balled, enough to make the man's knuckles turn white, Sally decided that interference was necessary. Because it was only a matter of time before the sleuth would move for a kill. The men barely noticed her entrance.

Sherlock's teeth were gritted so tightly that she heard it. When the detective spoke he growled like wolf. "This game of yours that we've had going on for years… All this, for me of all the people you could've decided to play with… Why?" No answer came. Losing whatever little patience he'd had Sherlock unleashed a chilling snarl, his whole breathing pattern changing. "WHY DID YOU CHOOSE ME?"

It wasn't Carl Powers. Or even the intellectual challenge. This whole nightmare was something far more personal and Sherlock was willing to push quite far to find out the real reason. Maybe if he did he'd be able to bring an end to this.

James didn't appear impressed. Something truly chilling lit up in the criminal's eyes. "Can you really not guess? Or have yo already forgotten? Because I certainly haven't. The answer should be obvious." The psychopath leaned closer, his all of a sudden venomous gaze not leaving Sherlock's for even a second. "Violet."

Sally had never seen anyone go as pale as Sherlock did under the impact of that single word.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Goodness me…! That was quite dizzying to type. I wonder what it was like to read?

Ya know, there's a tiny box down below if you want to let me know… (whistles)

But seriously, those poor people! So close, so far. We'll see if they'll all make it until the end… Ya know, the action/suspense part of this story is coming to an end. Only a chapter, maybe two, then we'll have the aftermath crash down on us. Drama ahoy!

Awkay, I'd better get going now. Until next time! I really hope that you'll all stop by for that one.

Take care!


	8. … to Heart of the Flames

A/N: Phew! It was a close call. But I DID manage to update today! However, before we get to the actual chapter…

THANK YOU, so, so much for those amazing reviews, listings and support! I absolutely adore typing this. It's so great to know that you're enjoying the ride as well! (hugs)

Alright, then. Are you ready? Because it's go-time. Thus, without any further stalling, BOOM!

* * *

… to Heart of the Flames

* * *

Stumbling through London with no idea what was real and what wasn't John didn't know where to go. Not until he was already there. How his feet led him to that very place was beyond him.

John wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting in the hallway until he heard familiar steps. He looked up, his heart pounding furiously. "Sarah?"

Sarah, who'd just been looking for her keys, gasped and nearly dropped her handbag. Her eyes were wide upon meeting his. "John? What are you doing here?" She frowned, obviously seeing something alarming in his eyes. "Are you… alright?"

John shook his head. It was fortunate, really, that he had no idea of the few silent tears running down his cheeks. "I… I don't know."

Firmly yet gently John was led inside. While he tried to tell his impossible story, the best as he could anyway, Sarah buzzed around the kitchen. It took a long time before John realized that she was making tea. Despite the absolutely horrible circumstances, despite not knowing if he was pursued by the world's most dangerous psychopath or going crazy, the familiarity of such a simple thing offered him comfort.

When Sarah finally appeared with two steaming mugs John accepted one of them gratefully. It took quite a while before he managed to bring himself to speak. What he just spewed out struck him absolutely exhausted. "Sherlock… Do you think he's real?" He stared at the ominiously dark liquid, feeling sick to his stomach all of a sudden. When did his world stop making any sense? " _Was_. I just… I don't know anymore."

"Yeah", Sarah murmured. Her voice was unreadable. "I think he was. You know…" Her breath shuddered when she sighed. "He may have been the most real of us all."

John hummed softly, trying not to feel like he'd just been stabbed. The second he'd gulped down the first sip of tea his nose wrinkled. "I'm sorry, but this… tastes funny." It took only seconds for him to realize that there was something very, very wrong with how the world was spinning before his eyes. He stiffened, his eyes widening. "Wah…?"

Gently, apologetically, Sarah took the mug from his hands. Her own were shaking. "I… I'm so sorry John. I'm sorry!" As far as he could tell her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. "I swear, I'm sorry!"

John stared, barely able to see, barely able to think. Was that a red dot on Sarah's chest? Two seconds before everything faded away he saw it disappear.

* * *

Sally had absolutely no idea who Violet was. Sherlock's immediate reaction to her name was enough to convince her that she wanted to know. For much too long it was eerily quiet between the consulting detective and the consulting criminal.

Moriarty leaned forward, resting his chin to both hands. It didn't take a lot of deduction skills to catch the threat in those eyes. "I knew that you were bad news from the moment she wrote to me from rehab. She told me that she'd finally met someone who understood what was going on inside her head. A fellow patient. Apparently that man was as good of a high as any of the substances she'd used. I breathed a sigh of relief when she was discharged five months later. And then she disappeared. I knew immediately what happened." How was it possible that the psychopath smiled despite the rage loud and clear in his eyes? "Did you know that I was the one who found her from that stinking, miserable rathole? Dead, with a used needle lay on the floor." Moriarty looked away, as though watching a movie meant for his eyes only. "And then I saw you through the window, talking to Lestrade. Fidgety and still high. He seemed determined to arrest you until your brother appeared. Ready to save you again. Since then I've known. Now I'm finally going to ask you." The criminal leaned forward. "Were you the one who gave her the drug?"

It was impossible to read the look on Sherlock's face. His body language, however, betrayed him. "Yes. She begged me to."

Moriarty nodded. The man appeared cool and composed if one didn't look into his eyes. "A few months later, which I assume you spent in a yet another rehab, I saw you working with Lestrade. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective." There was a slightly wrinkled nose, a flash of rage. "The day my sister died I lost my world and you gained yours. Until now." The criminal smiled. "How does it feel to see your whole world on fire?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed in what could only be called a dangerous manner. "It may be on fire but it hasn't been turned to ashes yet." All of a sudden the detective was standing up. "Thank you. You've been most helpful."

Sally was too busy following the man to pay any attention to the look on Moriarty's face. By the time she dashed out of the room Sherlock had already pressed the call button for a lift. "Was it true?" she demanded. What was that in her voice? Shock? Disgust? "About Violet?"

Sherlock didn't look at her. His whole body fidgeted with impatience. "What difference does it make right now?"

Sally gulped. A surge of cold went through her. "Sherlock…!" Just then the lift's doors opened. "Where are you going?"

She knew that she should've followed him, however little good that would've done. But in a flash he'd entered the metallic box. She barely had the time to hear his response before the doors closed, separating them. "To John."

* * *

Everything stopped entirely for a much too long moment after Spencer collapsed. At that very moment nothing in the world made any sense. Then everything began to speed forward entirely too quickly.

"What the hell happened?" Derek snarled, lowering Spencer to the ground as gently as he possibly could. His heart was hammering so fast that it was difficult to focus on anything else. He would've shaken his friend to rouse the man but didn't dare to take the risk.

The woman who'd been with Spencer moved closer, inspecting the unconscious man with sharp, critical eyes. Derek had no idea where she got the penlight from but all of a sudden she was showing it to Spencer's eyes. She swore under her breath. "We have to get him to a hospital. Right now."

For a fleeting second surprise was visible in Emily's eyes. It disappeared with a single blink. "Aaliyah?" Most questions, however, would have to wait until later. For both the team and the former FBI-agent. "What's wrong with him?"

Aaliyah sighed, running a hand through her hair. Her frustration was almost palpable. "I tried to get him out of there before it was too late." Her hand was eerily steady while she searched her pocket and eventually took out what looked like a pill. It was small and pale blue, seemed perfectly harmless. "Moriarty's newest pride and joy. Designed for torture. It's not a time bomb, exactly. But the electric pulse it sends… It's horribly painful and causes a massive trauma. If the victim survives…" She took a deep breath. "There's no telling how much of _them_ is left."

Alex swallowed loudly. She didn't bother even trying to hide the sadness swelling inside her. Subconsciously she took one of Spencer's limp hands and held on as tightly as she could without fear of making it painful. "So… You're saying that the Reid we've known…?"

"NO!" Derek basically roared. His eyes were pure lava. Refused to relent, even if the man's whole form was shaking. "You haven't seen what he's been through. We won't… We're not going to lose him to… _this_. Not when he's breathing and has a strong pulse."

Aaliyah's expression was so sad that it terrified them all. Her jawline tightened. "I'm so sorry. But if that thing works the way that it was supposed to there's very little hope left."

Emily gritted her teeth, one of her hands balling. "How do you know?" There was a very understandable hint of suspicion in her voice.

The stranger refused to look at them. Instead she kept her focus on her patient, monitoring his vitals. "Because I was the one who designed it and helped put it there."

* * *

Of course Sherlock knew exactly where to go. He still remembered the day Moriarty just mentioned to the very last detail. Which didn't make knowing what he'd face any easier.

Sherlock was almost sure that he'd never ran so fast in his entire life. Each little second was precious. Every single step he took cost too much time.

The house, located in one of London's less appealing parts, still looked nightmarish. The horrible secrets locked inside and the fact that no one had actually lived in it for years only made the impression stronger. Yet somehow it was every bit as it was back then.

Everything seemed so similar that Sherlock felt sick to his stomach.

He didn't hesitate, though. Couldn't afford to do so. That's why he pushed himself on, through the massive iron gates and filthy front yard. Wishing from the bottom of his heart that his mad dash didn't come too late.

The door was open. Of course it was. Sherlock gulped, trying not to be discouraged by the bleak facts beginning to pile up. He couldn't give up on hope when…

"John!" Yes, he knew that it was stupid. There might be Moriarty's men in the house. He didn't care.

He needed John to hear him, needed the doctor to know that…

Running despite the fact that his feet felt impossibly heavy Sherlock pushed himself up the stairs, trying not to look at the miserable building around him. Much faster than he would've been ready for it he'd reached the bedroom door. The scent that met his nose made him freeze for a fleeting moment.

Violets.

"John?" Gritting his teeth to find strength and courage Sherlock pushed the door open, finding no comfort from the fact that there were no obvious trap wires. This was wrong, all wrong. His blogger never refused to answer him. "John, can you…?" The detective's whole world tilted on its axis.

There, on a massive double bed that no one had used in years, lay John with his eyes closed. Appearing pale yet so very serene that it was terrifying. There didn't seem to be any injuries on the former soldier but that didn't offer any reassurance. Not when Sherlock couldn't detect even the slightest trace of breathing.

Sherlock began to move as though in some sort of a fog. Numb and in unimaginable pain all at once. Unable to comprehend and knowing entirely too clearly simultaneously. His mouth opened, attempting to utter a million words, but nothing came out.

His legs shook and his hands even more so when he made his way to his best friend, closing the small distance with a lot of effort. Barely able to breathe himself he searched for a pulse, tried to find even the faintest signal of hope while there was none. In a last, desperate attempt he moved the man's shirt. Nothing, absolutely nothing, in his entire life had hurt more than seeing the much too familiar scar.

This time it wasn't a body double. A magic trick. A cruel joke.

Sherlock wanted to scream, to howl out the pain threatening to tear him to pieces. He stared at his blogger's lifeless face, feeling every bit as dead inside. His fingers never moved from the other's pulse point, even if there wasn't even the faintest echo.

His fault, all of this. That the best man he'd ever met was… He gasped, the weight on everything threatening to crush him.

"He'll burn, John", he rasped in a voice that he couldn't recognize. His hand, the one that wasn't begging for what just wasn't there, fisted so tightly that it hurt. "I swear that he'll burn."

Stepping away from John was one of the hardest things he'd ever done but he had no other choice. It wasn't until then, about to leave, he noticed the two computers in the room's corner and froze. Both of them displayed CCTV-footage. One of Spencer being loaded to an ambulance, a group of desperate people trying to either bring him back to life or keep him alive. The other was of the BAU-team's second half at the cemetery, gathered around a much too familiar grave.

For a moment the shockwave of agony paralyzed Sherlock. Then rage, a thousand times stronger than the one which made a man fly out the window more times than he could count, flooded through. He knew exactly what he'd have to do.

Moriarty was rapidly taking away his whole damned world. And while he didn't have anything left to lose… He'd be sure that there'd be nothing left of the monster, either.

Sherlock looked towards John once more, a not so small part of him still hoping that there might be a trace of life. A signal of hope. Anything. The smaller man was just as lifeless as before.

"I'm sorry", Sherlock whispered, his voice breaking. His eyes stung more than he could bear but he blinked it away. "I'm so sorry." With that he left, like an angel of death and vengeance with his black coat billowing after him.

On his way out he sent a message to one of the unfamiliar numbers Moriarty had used to taunt him. His eyes blazed. Promising death, agony and destruction from the bottom of his shattered, burned heart.

' _Come and finish the dance where we started._ '

* * *

If he'd stayed five more minutes he would've seen how John first choked a gasping breath, then opened his bleary eyes. A single tear rolled down the soldier's cheek. "Sherlock…?"

Was that just another dream? No, he realized and the understanding made his heart jolt unhealthily. All of a sudden he was thinking clearly for the first time in what felt like ages. It was no dream. The scent of Sherlock's cologne lingered in the air.

John knew exactly where to go.

* * *

They almost missed it. At first they imagined that it was something carried by the wind or their imagination. They looked at each other, tense and prepared for everything.

And then, following the thud, they heard an unmistakable scream. After a horrible moment of silence they realized where it came from. There was a very fresh grave at their right. Or perhaps rather recently re-opened. Chills ran through all three of them when they saw the name on the tombstone.

' _Sherlock Holmes_ '

Apparently filling a once empty grave with a still, momentarily, alive body was Moriarty's idea of a good joke.

They didn't have shovels. While David ran to get one Aaron and JJ began to dig with their bare hands, knowing full well that there wasn't even a second left to waste. Moriarty wouldn't have been gracious enough to leave them with any.

They didn't speak while working furiously. When David finally appeared with two shovels they exchanged nods of gratitude, then kept working. None of them wanted to wonder who they'd find. And they definitely didn't want to wonder if they were already too late. As far as they were concerned the fight was far from over. Even if the person under all the dirt had gone way too quiet.

They froze for a valuable second when one of the shovels hit something hard. Then, regaining their ability to function remarkably quickly, they kept going.

"We're right here!" JJ cried out at last, when metal was already visible. "We'll get you out of there very soon! Just hang in there for a little longer!" There was no question whether anyone would be able to hear. To them such an option didn't exist.

Finally, finally, they were able to open the coffin. It wasn't locked. Not much of a surprise, considering that they weren't supposed to find it on time and the one inside would've never been able to get out alone, anyway. They exchanged looks, trying to seek comfort from one another. Then, using up a considerable amount of their joined strength, Aaron and David opened the lid. For a little while it was painfully silent and cold as the grim sight inside greeted them.

Mycroft Holmes lay there with his eyes closed. Covered in bruises, a couple of horrible burn marks tainting his form. They weren't sure which of the four was the most terrible detail. The gunshot wound between the government official's stomach- and chest area. The fact that it looked like his eyes had been either glued or stitched closed. That his mouth had been sutured closed but he'd screamed to a point where the stitches had popped. Or the substance blocking his ears.

"Candle wax…", David breathed out, disgust and shock loud and clear in his voice.

It wasn't until then they noticed something of vital importance. Mycroft… Was he even breathing? No. His chest wasn't moving.

They'd all been trained for these situations. Hell, they'd come entirely too close to losing one of their own several times over. Neither of those things made taking action any easier. With a far from steady hand JJ took her cell phone, dialing for an ambulance. Furiously determined Aaron and David began to work on the lifeless body of their almost friend.

JJ's call seemed to take ages. By the time it ended there wasn't a trace of Mycroft responding to the far from gentle coaxes. The two agents swapped places, both taking their turns to try and get the heart to start beating once more. It felt like they'd been trying to catch a shadow.

"C'mon", David murmured, pumping with all he had. If his voice broke a little he didn't care. "Don't you dare do this! Sherlocks needs you. Both of your brothers need you. We're not letting you leave them like this."

Mycroft couldn't possibly hear him. And taking into account the gunshot wound and blood loss what happened next shouldn't have been possible. But all of a sudden the government official's body arched as he drew in a small yet stubborn, strangled breath.

* * *

Sherlock had to kill three of Moriarty's guards to get inside. As soon as he entered the much too familiar pool building he sensed that something aside the obvious was wrong. Less than five minutes later he found out what it was. Several bombs had been fastened all over the place, a timer counting down on each of them. For a breath he moved to stop them, almost sure that he could. Then changed his mind.

He did promise that Moriarty would burn.

Sherlock ran, the sheer force of determination and despair driving him on, entirely too aware of the blood staining his hands, clothes and skin. Of how treacherous tears, such he'd never admit having shed, had created patterns to the stains on his cheeks. It was the one last, desperate lunge of a man who had nothing left to go on for. Nothing but his last breath.

Sherlock, however, froze when he came face to face with the man who'd remained in the doomed building, waiting for him.

Moriarty sighed, beginning to approach him. "Oh, Sherlock… The two of us, it could've been brilliant. And it has been a lot of fun, I'll admit that much." Simultaneously they drew out guns, pointing at each other. "But now that I've burned the heart out of you… It's time for you to finally die."

"You made a mistake. Just one but it'll cost you your life", Sherlock pointed out through his teeth. "You should've never left you and me with only one way out of this."

They fired so simultaneously that the gunshots blended as one. Sherlock smirked with satisfaction when he saw the bullet pierce the right side of Moriarty's chest. The rush of adrenaline was so overpowering that it took a while before he became aware of the pain radiating from his own body. He blinked slowly and tried to move his hand but couldn't. Dazed and unnervingly cut off from reality he watched how Moriarty lifted his gun for the second and final blow.

"G'night, Sherly."

A bullet flew but there wasn't a sound. A silencer whispered as it spat the destructive piece of metal to its way. Air vibrated while it flew, then landed.

Sherlock felt even more dazed than before as he watched how Moriarty's little smirk turned into a look of stun. At first the criminal mastermind fell to his knees, then all the way down. The shot had created a crater to the back of the man's head. This time it was a genuine one. The gun clattered to the floor unnaturally heavily, giving the gasp of surprise neither the unsuspecting victim or Sherlock managed.

Painstakingly slowly Sherlock lifted his head, ignoring the dizziness to see his savior. There, where snipers once monitored his and John's first meeting with Moriarty, stood Erik Collins. There was a grim look on the contract killer's face. One which spoke that although one target was down the mission was by no means over. With the determined eyes of a highly experienced professional the man he once sent to jail lifted the gun, pointed it directly at his forehead.

This time it wouldn't matter whether he fell to his back or stomach.

Sherlock kept his gaze on the other man's, firmly, stubbornly. If he was about to die he was going to go down with all the dignity he had left. When the gunshot came he didn't even shudder. Until afterwards, with the realization washing over him.

While Erik fell Sherlock's gaze moved swiftly to meet the arrival who saved his life. His heart certainly stopped for a few valuable seconds. Because he saw John Watson standing only ten steps from where Erik now lay slumped.

John, alive, breathing, looking at him with smouldering eyes.

For a few stolen seconds, ignoring the pain beginning to radiate from his gunshot wound, Sherlock smiled. Would've laughed if he'd had any more breath. Until a horrible thought smashed through brutally, squashing the hope and joy that just dared to rise. He gasped, ice filling all of him. The bombs…! "John…!"

Sherlock never made it further than that before the explosion came.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang! But if it's any consolation those MAY be one of the last cliffies of this story. Hopefully…!

Soooo… Only one or two chapters before we reach the epilogue stage. Who lives? Who dies? Does anyone get a happy ending?

Do let me hear from ya – and remember that the best way to get through to me is through cookies. (smirks and winks)

Until next time, you all! I REALLY hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!


	9. Until the Bitter End

A/N: I'm baaaaaaaaaack! (Although updating today wasn't easy because of my laptop giving me a HARD time…) I'm IMMENSELY sorry for being away for so long! I had big decisions to make considering the plotline of the story and they took their sweet time. But now I'm FINALLY back and ready to finish this story. Only one more chapter and an epilogue after this!

FIRST, THOUGH… A million thank yous for all the reviews, listings and support you've given this lil' thing! You sure brought this back from the brink. (HUGS) Thank you!

Awkay, because the clock keeps ticking… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll find this worth the wait.

 **Tissue alert…?**

* * *

Until the Bitter End

* * *

It wasn't often news reporter Diandra Torres was rendered speechless. But if it wasn't for the scripted words she wouldn't have had any idea what to say as she stared at the destruction spreading behind her. She'd seen murder scenes. Natural disasters. Horrible accidents. But something about this made a cold fist squeeze around her stomach.

"Didi, focus!" a firm voice somehow managed to snatch her attention. "Five… Four… Three… Two… One…"

And just like that she was a professional again. She took a deep breath, flicked back her long mahogany hair and schooled her expression to a firmly composed mask. "The area around me was shaken brutally when a pool building exploded a little over an hour ago. For now it's unclear whether there have been casualties but judging by the activity of a rescue personnel it's highly likely that people have been trapped inside. The cause of the explosion is unclear but for now the officials claim that I may have been a gas leak…"

* * *

They were allowed into the tiny room one or two at a time. As far as the BAU-team was concerned they couldn't understand the limitations. What difference did it make how many of them went in at the once when…?

Penelope swallowed hard but couldn't hold back the tears. Her hand trembled when she stroked Spencer's far too cool cheek gently. "We… We're all right here, sweetie. You know that, don't you? We're with you. So don't…" The sobs became so hard that she couldn't produce another word.

Derek's arms were strong and firm when they wrapped around her and pulled her close. She didn't want to see his face, knowing that he wasn't doing much better. Instead she held onto his black shirt with all her might with one hand while the other squeezed Spencer's limp fingers, refusing to let go. Refusing to give up although they knew far too well how little hope there was left.

"Shh, baby girl…" Derek's own voice was only a choked breath. "It'll be okay."

Penelope gulped back a sob, turning her face towards Spencer although she was scared to do so. His eyes were closed and there was a eerily serene look on his pale face. "He's not in pain", she murmured. "That's good, right?"

"Yeah." Derek's hand rubbed soothing circles on her back. "That's good."

Penelope's fingers curled even more tightly around Spencer's hand. Holding on for the two of them when he couldn't. Her lips opened although she had no clue what she wanted to say.

She never got the chance to find out. Because just then the room's door opened after a quiet knock and a young, very sympathetic looking man in all green entered. "I'm… sorry to interrupt, but… We have to take him to the surgery, now."

Penelope nodded although it was the last thing she wanted to do. Rationally, she knew that Spencer needed help to have even the slightest chance. But she didn't want to let these people take him away, not yet, not when they just got him back, not when she might never see him again.

She looked towards the stranger, her eyes wide and full of unshed tears. Her hand refused to let go of the team's youngest. "You'll… take a good care of him, right?"

The man in green nodded. His eyes revealed that he understood. "Of course. We've… been informed how much he means to your team. I promise that we'll do whatever we can to bring him back to you."

That was supposed to be enough, wasn't it? It wasn't for Penelope. But she nodded bravely, trying her best to stay strong for Spencer. The same way he always fought.

There was a one more thing she needed to do, though. Her hands were barely steady enough to handle such a task but she searched through her bag, eventually finding what she'd been looking for. It was a bracelet made of two thick strings, one white, one blue. By some miracle she actually managed to tie it around her friend's wrist, right above the one given by the hospital.

"For luck?" Derek suggested in a suspiciously husky tone.

Penelope nodded barely noticeably. She wiped her eyes clumsily although it was useless. "Yeah… For luck."

With that there was fairly little choice. Going against absolutely all her instincts she gave Spencer's hand a one more squeeze, then let go. She absolutely refused to look back when Derek led her out of the room. She might've never managed to walk away if she had.

Penelope held it together remarkably well until they reached a small hallway that no one seemed to use. There, seeing her obvious distress, Derek wrapped his arms around her again. No words were needed. It was unclear which one of them needed the embrace more.

"He… looked at me, just before he…" Derek's suddenly unfamiliar voice faded away. The man cleared his throat. "He knew that we came for him. He wouldn't leave us now."

Penelope nodded fiercely, a brand new spark of fool's hope rising within. "No, he wouldn't. We won't let him."

So they stood for a remarkably long time. One crying harder than she had even once since the supposed death of Emily Prentiss and the other fighting furiously against the hellish searing sensation taking over his eyes. Both of them hoping from the bottom of their hearts that they wouldn't end up losing a member of their family, one way or the other.

That fickle fate would grant Spencer Reid back to them a one more time.

Neither of them paid attention to the TV that was on nearby. That's why they didn't see the footage from the explosion site. They were unaware of the devastating sight hiding underneath all the rubble.

Nor could they possibly imagine the horrific price at which the nightmare would soon be brought to an end.

* * *

When Dr. Arya Wolley came to work that day she somehow knew to expect that the shift would be unusual. She was proven correct when she received Mycroft Holmes for a patient. According to the report she was handed he'd suffered a cardiac arrest. No one seemed to know how long, exactly, it lasted. By the time the man was admitted he was at least semi conscious although it was clear to the medical professionals that he wouldn't stay that way for long. Based on his injuries, which had been treated as well as possible considering that more throughout tests were still pending, he'd lost a lot of blood. There was a good chance that he was still bleeding internally. He would've needed an emergency surgery, assuming that there was an off chance that they weren't too late, anyway.

The poor bastard's odds weren't too high and based on the reported injuries Arya had a nauseating feeling that she was wasting her time.

She sighed heavily upon approaching the space he'd been given in the emergency room. There was a young nurse waiting for her. "How's the patient?"

The nurse shook her head. The dark look in the younger woman's eyes spoke everything necessary. "His vitals don't look too good. There was nothing we could do about the candle wax in his ears yet. But… I removed the stitches on his eyelids. They were clearly bothering him and, well… I figured that I could do that much, at least."

Arya nodded curtly. If the man really was a DOA such a small, quick act of kindness couldn't really hurt. "How were his eyes?"

"There were signs of infection but he still has at least a part of his vision. He was able to see me." The nurse swallowed loudly. "Whatever good that may be, now…"

Arya sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping. "Well… Let's see how he's holding up." She wouldn't even guess whether he was still alive.

Arya pushed aside the curtain that'd been shielding the bed Mycroft occupied. Only to have her eyes widen at the sight that met her. Her critically injured, highly likely dying patient was nowhere to be seen. All he'd left behind were now detached tubes and wires along with some droplets of blood. He'd even managed to silence the heart monitor.

The nurse gasped loudly and recoiled a step. "I… I only left him for a few minutes… I don't understand…!"

Arya closed her eyes for a second, trying to find her composure. "We need to find him." She could only hope that by some miracle they wouldn't find a corpse. She refused to listen to the part of her head that begged her to let a dying man pass away in a place of his own choice. "He can't be far."

As they dashed into motion they completely ignored the TV, which was pointed directly towards Mycroft's bed. News report footage of the explosion and the aftermath kept going on and on in an endless loop. None of it promised anything but death and destruction.

The hospital staff, of course, completely underestimated how stubborn their patient could be. It took absolutely all the strength that he still had but Mycroft actually managed to haul himself as far as to the building's rooftop. That was when his body decided that enough was enough.

He slumped limply to the hard surface, his back leaning against the wall. For a few moments the pain radiating from his injuries blinded him but he fought it back with the sheer power of will. Slowly, with much effort, he lifted his gaze enough to look at the sky. To breathe in the city that both he and Sherlock had grown to love so very much.

There was a lot that Mycroft found himself regretting as he sat there, focusing on breathing to remain conscious for as long as possible. If only he'd fought the Moriarty twins faster, harder… Then maybe…

But there was no use in remorse anymore, was there?

The war was over. They fought until the bitter end. At least the twins were probably both gone, now. Maybe Spencer was safe. Maybe there'd be one of them left. At least their sacrifices weren't meaningless. And at least he could see, for however long or little time he still had left. In these moments he wasn't trapped into the dark. Small blessings.

"Sentiment, brother dear…", Mycroft murmured. His battered eyelids drooped heavily. "It's a hateful thing."

He was almost out of awareness by then. But in that foggy, strange moment on the line between life and death Mycroft saw something that caught his attention. A little bird flew almost right by him, sitting to the rooftop's edge. It looked towards him, long and hard. Then chirped mightily before rising to its wings once more.

Mycroft didn't know what to make of the bizarre event. But in that last moment of consciousness, free of pain and thought, he smiled. Then closed his eyes and let himself drift away.

* * *

Trapped inside the wrecked building, completely unaware of the drama outside, Sherlock blinked his eyes open. Slowly, sluggishly. At first all he could see was the all consuming dark. Then, slowly, the rubble around him began to register. Along with the curious fact that he was… wet?

"The explosion… It threw you to the pool." The familiar voice was raspy and unnervingly weak. "'made me drag your arse out of it, you git."

Struggling with all his might Sherlock was able to turn his head. It took a couple of seconds before he managed to distinguish John, sitting about five steps away in the shadows. With the lack of light it was impossible to analyse the potential injuries. All he could tell was that John seemed to be trembling. He was almost certain that he smelled blood but it might've been his own.

At least they were still alive. He had to focus on that. He needed to focus on that.

Sherlock attempted to shift. Quite soon he came to discover that it was a very bad idea. He groaned when a violent stab of agony traveled through him.

"Don't… Don't move too much", John instructed. "I patched you up the best I could. Don't make yourself bleed again."

Sherlock swallowed. He didn't like the taste that rose into his mouth. "… alright?" Good grief, was that pathetic mew his voice?

To both their surprise, perhaps, John shook his head with a nearly hysterical, bitter laugh. "No, Sherlock. I'm… I'm not okay." A few moments of silence, sans their harsh breathing, passed by. "We were just blown up. You… You tried to die on me again, you bloody bastard. And I'm… I'm still not sure if you're… you. That this isn't just some sick joke. Or a nightmare."

Sherlock knew all too well that moving around was a big mistake. But how was he expected to hold still when…? Well, it seemed that the decision wasn't entirely in his hands.

The second his leg twitched John pointed something at him. Could it be a gun? "If this isn't some weird dream… What reason do I have to believe that you're really Sherlock?" The former soldier's voice was stunningly firm, considering the clearly audible pain. "Stay… right… there."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. This was getting tedious. "Don't be an idiot, John! Use your head! You just killed a man for me, again. Why would you shoot me now?"

John stared at him for what felt like ages. Then, slowly, tossed away the item he'd been holding. It was nothing but a piece of debris. "You had me at the idiot." The doctor sounded amused for a moment, then sighed heavily, wearily. It shuddered. "I'm… I'm so tired, Sherlock. I just want to go home."

Sherlock swallowed. He couldn't taste blood anymore. It took longer than it should've before he managed to speak. "For what it's worth… I'm sorry." _About all this. Mary, the baby, dragging you all into this…_

"Shut up." Then John was moving, crawling towards him. Soon it became apparent why walking wasn't an option. The leg that used to have a psychosomatic limp was covered in blood and twisted to a horrible position. "Not… your fault… so shut up."

Sherlock shivered. He had to blink a couple of times to rid the haze attempting to take over his line of vision. "What… are you doing…?"

"I don't care… if you're real… or not." Stubborn as ever John continued his clearly painful, desperate journey. "I'm done… being alone."

That was when Sherlock saw even more blood, coating most of the front of John's shirt. So much of it that he couldn't see the still bleeding wound. Did it even matter where it was, with how badly they were trapped? Did anything matter anymore?

There, with no one present to see them, Sherlock let a couple of tears roll. _No…!_ It wasn't supposed to end like this. True, he never gave his own life a lot of thought. But John… The detective's lips opened once, twice, but nothing of the thousand and one things he wanted to say came out.

Eventually John slumped down almost right next to him. For a mighty while they both focused on breathing, hard as it was becoming with each passing second. They both attempted to find a hint of comfort from knowing that if these were indeed their last minutes at least they weren't facing them alone.

Just the two of them against the rest of the world, until the end.

"People will talk", Sherlock pointed out with whatever little breath he had left. He had a feeling that he wouldn't stay conscious much longer. It bothered him far less than it should've.

John chuckled, which turned quickly into a storm of hacking, horrible coughs. "I've… been reliably informed… that they do little else."

They just lay there for a while, time and everything else slipping away. Barely awake at the end of what might very well be their final adventure. The hopelessly distant sounds of banging and shouts seemed to come from a whole another world.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John's voice was barely even a whisper. Neither had the energy to look towards the other. "It… was good, while it lasted."

Somehow Sherlock managed to summon the will to smile. A rare, pure and honest smile in the absolutely worst of moments. "Yes", he agreed, letting his eyes close. "It was."

That was how the rescue workers found them fifteen minutes later. The famous Hat Detective and his loyal blogger. Side by side. "We've got someone alive down here!"

Moriarty's dead body had a tiny, chilling smile on its face.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Gosh…! If it's ANY consolation AT ALL, that wasn't easy to type, either. So much pain and heartbreak!

And, so, uh… There won't be a happy ending for everyone, as you've probably gathered. There's been a character death warning from the beginning and for a good reason. One or two of the still fighting heroes won't pull through. The next chapters reveals whether this story's subtitle 'The Case of Two' meant…

A, the two Moriarty brothers

B, two deaths

C, two Holmes brothers being left

Okay, now I'm being horribly cruel. At least I didn't include the quote from 'Game of Thrones' that this chapter made me think about… (I do value my life, ya know?)

All I can say… is I'm sorry! The next chapter IS going to hurt. (winces)

PLEASE, do leave a note! You've SO earned the right to rant after this one… I do enjoy hearing from you!

Awkay, I'll just… run, right now. Until next time – I PROMISE that it won't take this long! I really hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!


	10. The Case of Two

A/N: Sooooooooo… It's update time! There'll be some fair warnings before we actually get going. But first…!

THANK YOU, so very, very, VERY much for your AMAZING reviews, listings and support! You guys have actually been sticking around through this entire LOOOOOOONG ride and I can't thank you enough for it. You're all fantastic! (hugs)

Okay, so, the promised warnings… **After the previous chapter I typed that this one's going to hurt and it will. The character death warning was there from the beginning for a reason.** So… Tissues?

Still in for the ride? Awkay. Let's go.

* * *

The Case of Two

* * *

Someone might've been baffled by the crowd gathered to the hospital's waiting room. The whole BAU-team, Emily included, had been there for ages. At some point they were joined by Sherlock and Mycroft's adoptive parents. None of them minded too much at the moment. In such a time they found comfort from one another, even though barely a word was spoken.

After all this they were basically one big family, weren't they?

The hours dragged on painfully slowly. They all fought as hard as they could. But the lack of sleep and overwhelming stress were taking their toll on them. One by one they began to nod off until only Aaron was left. He sat perfectly still with a barely holding, irony mask for an expression on his face. It had to be almost four in the morning until a doctor finally entered the room. Spencer's doctor.

Just one look at the woman's face was enough to strike nearly all breath out of Aaron's lungs. He sat still and stiff as a statue for a few seconds until he finally managed to usher himself into motion. After making sure that the others were still asleep he pushed himself up and began to drag his impossibly heavy legs towards the doctor. "Well?" was what he eventually barked out because it was all he had breath for.

The doctor, Jones M according to her name tag, gulped hard. "I'm sorry, but… What I'm about to tell will be hard to hear." She took a deep breath. It was unclear which one of them she was giving the time for. "A massive amount of damage was done to Spencer's brain. There was a great deal of bleeding that we somehow managed to get mostly under control."

The one, simple word in between froze Aaron's whole world. Seized his breath. "Mostly?"

The doctor nodded slowly, obviously wondering how much he was ready to hear. The sorrow never left her eyes. "Some of the bleeding… It's in places that we just can't get a hold of. The damage was too extensive." Her hand twitched towards his until she thought better of it. "I… I'm so sorry. But… Right now all we can do is make him comfortable." _Until the end_ wasn't voiced but entirely too clearly present.

Aaron's lungs barely functioned. And his eyes… The searing sensation that filled them was maddening. It took what felt like ages before he managed to speak. "Can we…?" He tried to clear his throat but the blockage didn't go anywhere. "Do you think that we could…?" He wasn't able to produce the words 'say goodbye'. Refused to.

The doctor sighed. "We can try to bring him out of anesthesia. But I'm afraid that I can't promise you how lucid he'll be. Or if he'll wake up at all." This time she did squeeze his shoulder, futilely trying to offer him comfort. "Agent Hotchner, I'm so sorry." She nodded towards the still sleeping team. "Do you want me to…?"

Aaron shook his head quickly. "No. I'll tell them myself." He barely recognized his own voice. It felt like someone had laid a ton's weight on his shoulders. He was the team leader, wasn't he? It was his responsibility to make sure that they were safe and it was also his responsibility to let them know that he'd failed their youngest. Even if he had no idea how he'd manage to do it.

* * *

Elsewhere in the hospital Aaliyah felt exhausted, frustrated and incredibly sad as she made her way towards the building's exit. Despite all her attempts she failed Spencer. And now, with the Moriarty twins gone, she had absolutely no idea where to go although she was free for the first time in ages. With everything that'd been lost and sacrificed the freedom tasted bitter in her mouth.

Quite close to the exit her eyes met a familiar figure. Anthea was talking to a phone, a tense look on her face. The second the woman noticed her she finished the call and walked towards her. "So… You're leaving?"

Aaliyah shrugged, feeling too much at once for any of it to show. "I… don't really have any reason to stay", she admitted. "You?"

Anthea sighed heavily. She seemed at least a decade older than her years. "I'm one of the reasons this war began." To her experienced ears the guilt, remorse and pain were clearly audible. "The least I can do is to stay and make sure that it's really over."

"So I guess this is goodbye." Aaliyah ran a hand through her hair, her muscles nearly cramping from all the tension. "Don't worry, Mycroft taught me well how to keep secrets. Violet Moriarty."

Violet Moriarty. A woman who was supposed to be dead. James Moriarty's soul pressure point. Reincarnated as Anthea.

She was already walking away when Anthea called out. "Your son… Don't you want to know…?"

"No." It was cold and firm. Anything but Aaliyah's heart. "Just… Just keep him away from me. It's the best thing that could ever happen to him." It wasn't until she made it outside she burst into tears.

* * *

A distant voice in the back of Spencer's head tried to signal that something was wrong when he drifted out of the gray hue, feeling impossibly heavy and tired. For a moment he nearly slipped away once more until he heard voices whispering somewhere a million miles away.

"… sure that he isn't in pain?" Was that Penelope? Why did she sound like she'd been crying?

"Yes." He'd definitely never head that sad voice before. "We've given him enough pain medication to make him feel comfortable. It'll make him drowsy, too, though."

Spencer didn't have the slightest clue what they were talking about. He tried to sit up, wanted to let them know that he was very much awake. All he managed was a tiny twitch.

But it was enough. Someone moved at his right. "Reid?" Derek's voice didn't sound right. "Kid, are you awake?"

Several sets of footsteps moved. Spencer could feel people crowding around him. It was enough to make his eyes open at least a little bit.

The last thing he remembered was Jim taking him. Being in total darkness, terrified and alone. So how could his team be here? Was this all a dream?

It took some time before the infuriating blur left his line of vision. The sight that eventually met him made him smile. "… u came …" He could barely talk and it should've scared him. As it was the relief was too overwhelming. His team, his family, came to take him back home. They didn't abandon him into the dark.

Was David crying? No, couldn't be. "Yeah, kid. We came."

Spencer sighed. The fatigue from before seemed to be escalating. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to keep his eyes open. "… home?" He'd just sleep first. After that he'd make sure that Sherlock and Mycroft were alright. Then… Then he'd go back home. The nightmare was finally over.

"Yeah, of course." JJ took his hand, oh so gently, and rubbed soothing circles although her fingers were trembling. "Shh… Just sleep, Spence. It's okay. We're all here, watching over you."

Spencer had never felt as safe in his life and wished that he'd found the words to tell them as much. He wasn't scared or in pain, if that was what they worried about. Just horribly tired.

Still… He felt that it was vitally important to ask… "'lock? 'oft?"

"Everything's going to be alright." He had no idea if Alex had understood him. But somehow her words eased whatever worries had been rising. "Just relax. It's okay."

Spencer let his gaze linger on the group gathered around his bed. His whole team was there, even Emily. Some of them were crying. He couldn't understand why. They were all alright and he'd be, too. He just needed some more sleep.

Spencer blinked sluggishly. He barely managed to get his eyes even a little bit open. "… rry 'm so 'ired." He smiled, taking in the sight of them, then finally allowed his eyes to close. "..'e you 'oon." Those words were barely audible even to himself. He hoped that they caught them, anyway.

"See you soon", Aaron echoed in a whisper. In a different frame of mind it might've confused Spencer. Why was everyone whispering?

It didn't matter. He felt safe and comfortable. It wasn't dark and lonely anymore. It felt nice, to fall asleep to that comfort.

While drifting away Spencer could've sworn that he smelled his mother's perfume.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade didn't have any idea how long he'd been sleeping. Or unconsicous. Comatose. Dead to the world. Whatever he was. When his eyes finally agreed to open halfway all he saw was white.

 _What the…?_

Before he began to panic he heard movement. "Hey. Are you awake?" Now that was a voice he knew.

Slowly, with a great deal of effort, Greg moved his head. Sitting beside his hospital bed on a visibly uncomfortable chair was Sally Donovan. Just one glance at her face was enough to convince his sluggish brain that something was horribly wrong. He frowned, desperately trying to catch up. "'s 'in on?" Pathetic, really. But it'd have to do.

Sally swallowed loudly. Her whole frame stiffened. "What…?" She cleared her throat. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Greg thought as hard as he possibly could with the fast rising headache. Somewhere nearby an infuriating beeping sound intensified. "I… talked 'o Mycroft." His eyebrows furrowed and a small part of him noticed that he was trembling. Oh yes, he remembered a surge of hellish agony. Then… Well, everything had been pretty dark since. "… shot? …"

Sally nodded. It was impossible to tell how she was feeling. "One of Moriarty's snipers shot you", she confirmed. "You… were injured pretty badly but the doctors are fairly sure that you'll be alright."

Greg felt like pointing out that if the sniper would've wanted him dead he'd very well be dead. But something in Sally's eyes caught his full attention. Sorrow. The beeping increased still, along with the furious, nearly panicked hammering of his heart. "What's wrong?" Commanding, almost loud. The miracles of adrenaline…

Sally's mouth opened twice. Then, apparently, she made up her mind. "Molly Hooper and Mrs. Hudson… They're gone." She barely gave him the time to swallow those news before she went on, as though afraid that she'd change her mind if she wasted time. She actually had to wipe her eyes. "And… Just before you began to wake up I heard that there's been another death."

* * *

Thomas Holmes remembered better than well the day his sons were first brought before him. Emotionally scarred despite their young age and terrified. Yet there was a fire in both their eyes that gave him a promise that these two would fight through anything. If only he'd known just how much there'd be to overcome…

He had to watch Sherlock nearly die of drugs, several times over.

He was forced to watch Mycroft starving himself to death, also several times over.

And what about all those other close calls? His boys always lived on the edge, always sought after the high of adrenaline, and such a lifestyle didn't come without a cost. He couldn't count through how many nights he'd held his crying wife and futilely tried to hold back his own tears, wondering if this was finally the time when one of their babies wouldn't come back to them.

With how very close to losing them both he'd come oh so many times, was it any wonder that he played the part of a grieving parent as well as he did after Sherlock's fall?

Those little over two years were nothing short of torture to him, even if he knew that Sherlock was alive. Yet this… The past eleven days, sixteen hours and twenty-eight minutes were the closest thing to hell he'd ever been in.

Mycroft's doctor was painfully honest with them from day one. With a grim, apologetic expression she explained the full extend of their older son's injuries and gently prepared them to expect the worst. To all their stun the stubborn man had actually escaped from them once before crashing entirely. By the time they found him from the hospital's rooftop Mycroft was suffering from a massive internal bleeding.

At that point, hearing the location and finding it clashing with everything it symbolized to their family, Thomas excused himself and left the room.

Since then he'd waited with his heart stuck in his throat how Mycroft struggled through three separate operations. They lost him more or less briefly six times. Thomas could've sworn that he felt each and every single one of them. Since then it was a waiting game to see whether Mycroft's body would be strong enough to cope with all the damage done. Thomas didn't care about the ventilator, tubes and machines. As much as they allowed him to he sat right beside his son, holding the man's hand and talking about anything that came to mind. He didn't care if they said that Mycroft's hearing was permanently damaged. He'd be damned if he didn't try to let his son know that the man wasn't alone in this fight.

When Thomas was finally allowed back into the room after Mycroft's sixth cardiac arrest he grabbed his boy's hand as hard as he possibly could. Through unshed tears he could, for a fleeting moment, see the little boy he first met once upon a time. "If not for me and Hannah… Then for Sherlock." He gasped, barely managing a proper breath. It took a mighty moment before he managed to continue. "Spencer, Diana… Not yet, please."

Late into the following evening they finally dared to take Mycroft off the ventilator. The tears Thomas shed in the hospital's hallway were bittersweet. His eyes were still red and puffy when hours later he met his wife at the hospital's chapel. Together and with shaking hands they lit two candles to honor the late members of the Reid family and prayed that those two would help lead the remaining brothers back home.

Day twelve was dawning and Thomas had, despite his best efforts, slipped into light sleep. A small, jerking motion snapped him abruptly back to awareness. He blinked, frantically trying to clear his mind, and turned his head. What he discovered made warmth flutter in the pit of his stomach.

Mycroft's eyes were only half open and hazy. But they were finally open nonetheless and full of recognition as they stared at him. Recognition and demand.

And all of a sudden Thomas felt cold once more because he knew exactly what Mycroft was silently asking. Not about his own injuries, although his son must've noticed the lack of hearing already. But about his brothers.

Thomas' fingers curled just a little tighter around Mycroft's although he knew that his son usually wasn't a fan of physical contact. Surely this was a special occasion? "I… I'm so sorry", he whispered. He kept the words clear although he knew how skilled the younger man was at reading lips. This was something that he never wanted to repeat. "Spencer… He's gone."

Thomas didn't know how much medication had to do with the loss of control. And all the trauma brought on his body must've done damage to Mycroft's mind as well. But it was the first time he ever saw his older son cry.

* * *

Sherlock had never liked waking up very much. Especially when he was sick or injured. Especially when he'd just had horrible nightmares. He joined the waken world with a small, rather pathetic whimper, immediately ready to slip right back under.

Until he heard a very familiar voice. Even if it sounded hoarse and weak. "Hey. Welcome back, sleepy head."

Sherlock sighed. Or was it a yawn? He wished that he would've had the energy to force his eyelids open. "… ohn?"

"Yeah. It's me." There was a bizarre breath of air. Or maybe it was just his imagination. "Now listen to me, you stubborn git. You've been asleep for so long that it's getting ridiculous. Open your eyes. I'm right here."

The sound of the room's door opening caught Sherlock off guard and made his eyes fly open instantly. It took a lot of willpower to hold back a wince when he breathed too sharply before turning his head. His adoptive mother's eyes widened when she walked in to see him awake. "Sherlock?" Without any further warning she was rushing towards him. It seemed to take a lot of self control of her not to fold him into a crushing hug. Instead she ruffled his hair with one hand, like she did when he was a child. Her eyes appeared moist and it made him feel uncomfortable. Her quivering smile didn't ease the feeling at all. "Oh, sweetie… I'm so glad that you're finally awake."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed while he took in her expression. Something was horribly wrong, he could feel it in his aching bones. Why couldn't he figure out what it was? His brain felt infuriatingly foggy. He blamed it on too much sleep.

When he attempted to sit up a new voice interrupted his efforts. "I wouldn't do that. You were banged up pretty good. Just take it easy, mate."

Sherlock glanced to the side. Sure, Greg was sitting in a wheelchair and appeared ready to fall asleep any given moment. But the DI was awake and alive. The realization made Sherlock feel far more than he would've been acutely ready for.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're as bad as John", he growled. "Stop fussing or I'll have you both kicked out."

The looks on his adoptive mother and Greg's faces morphed into something that really, honestly scared him. They exchanged a long look before she spoke in a badly trembling voice. "I… I forgot, that you might not remember…"

Sherlock swallowed hard. He didn't like the taste rising into his mouth. "Remember what?" he spat out, fear and something beyond sharpening his tongue. What _the hell_ was going on?

His mother wiped her eyes. He could tell that she tried to maintain a brave front but she didn't quite manage it. "John's gone."

Sherlock had never, ever felt the kind of cold that filled him with those words. It was almost enough to still his heart. "John's right here!" he roared. Furious, terrified and desperate all at once. "I just talked to him!"

His mother paled. Her eyes welled up before she blinked it away. "He… He did say that you talk to him, even when he isn't there."

A couple of tears traveled down Greg's cheeks while the man wheeled closer. The DI's face was a mask of such grief that made any attempts of asking questions futile. Whatever was about to come would hurt both of them immensely. "Sherlock… John never made it out of the ruins. He died just as the rescue crew got there."

* * *

TBC, for an epilogue.

* * *

A/N: Uh… I'm sorry?

That SO wasn't the easiest chapter I've ever typed. The poor gang! How in the world are they going to overcome this, Sherlock especially?

 **As for the epilogue…** Something like this demands a longer than average aftermath. Which means that the epilogue will be divided to three parts. (A befitting number, if you ask me, even if one of the three is… Well.) We'll see quite a bit of pain, comfort and some fumbling, tentative steps towards a new, different tomorrow. And sadly John and Reid really are gone. (sniffles)

Soooo… Thoughts? Comments? Rants? I'll just try to prepare myself for ANYTHING…

Until next time, folks! I really hope that I'll see ya all then.

Take care!

* * *

tlc: Well of course I do! (smirks sheepishly) Awww, I'm glad to hear that I don't have to fear for my life! We'll see how long that lasts…

Let's see if any of the poor things will get a happy ending!

Colossal thank yous for the review!


	11. Epilogue, part 1 of 3 – Twilight

A/N: I had a VERY busy weekend. But now I'm FINALLY ready to update! (BEAMS) There'll be quite a bit of feels in this one, just so you know…

GOSH! Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your awesome reviews! It means a lot to me that you're willing to continue until the end, despite the heart shattering events in the previous chapter.

Awkay. I'm supposed to be in bed right now so I'd best get going…! I truly hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

Epilogue, part 1 of 3 – Twilight

* * *

Sherlock could feel himself floating. Weightless. Without even a single emotion tormenting his body and soul. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and on some distant level he realized that it should've worried him. It didn't.

Emotionless meant painless and he quite gladly welcomed that.

There, safely tucked away into his Mind Palace, he could see them all. It almost looked like they were having a party, especially with how they were smiling and laughing. Mrs. Hudson was baking, of course, and the sweet scent of whatever she was making wrapped around Sherlock like a blanket. Molly hovered nearby, making sure that there were enough tea-cups and plates for everyone. Even Spencer had joined them. In a more lucid state of mind Sherlock might've wondered if his head got his long-lost brother's bright smile and laugh wrong. He never even had the time to see the younger man smile without it being shadowed by immense grief.

What he saw next was something he never seemed to be ready for. John was also there, of course, stood with his back to him. The doctor had a steaming cup of tea in his firm hold. The other arm was draped protectively and tenderly around Mary's shoulders. It looked so normal and right that it nearly shattered Sherlock to pieces where he stood.

John was righ there. They all were. Only steps away and incredibly far away at the same time. Right before his eyes, in so much detail that it took his breath away. Yet Sherlock knew that if he as much as breathed too loudly it'd all fall apart, fade away like the figment of his imagination it was.

The sweetest yet most cruel of all things.

"Oh, sweetie…" That voice… Somehow he knew it although he hadn't heard it since he was a little boy. Even if he only had a vague memory of how it sounded. "Don't do this. We're only memories, now. You need to let us go."

Slowly, uncharacteristically hesitantly, Sherlock turned his head. True enough, Diana Reid was standing right next to him. Looking like the young woman he'd last seen her as. There was a great deal of sadness in her eyes.

Sherlock refused to speak, no matter how much he would've wanted to. Couldn't bear taking the risk of shattering the frail illusion his Mind Palace had granted him. His poor heart was hammering furiously and all of a sudden he felt very, very cold.

Diana's eyes filled with even more sorrow as she reached out a hand and placed it gently to his cheek. The touch felt far cooler than it should've. "I know how much you miss us. But it's time to wake up, now."

Sherlock swallowed loudly. It took a considerable amount of courage to whisper. "I don't want to wake up." If it meant losing them all over again… Losing John all over again…

Diana sighed. There was misery on her face when she leaned forward and pressed a pair of frosty lips momentarily to his forehead. "The world didn't end yet, sweetie. You'll never be alone, I promise."

Sherlock would've wanted to believe that, with his all. But how was he supposed to when the remnants of his whole world were here, only alive inside his head? Feeling cold and exhausted he turned his gaze once more, not even trying to diguise his despair.

John seemed to sense him looking. Torturously slowly the doctor's head began to turn, until they were only seconds away from meeting each other's gaze. And just then it all, Sherlock's all, fell away.

Sherlock woke up with a pained groan and curled up to his side, feeling sick in several ways. He would've wanted to throw up but after three days without food there was nothing left in his stomach. For a few moments he succumbed to painful dry heaves, trembling from cold and all the drugs still spinning around in his system. In that moment of sheer agony and soul crushing loneliness had only one coherent thought.

Home… He wanted to go home… He needed to go home…

It was a mighty struggle but eventually he made it to his own two feet. He didn't bother looking around the cold and filthy, miserable drug den. There were at least ten people, all out cold, in the room. None of them had recognized him, probably didn't even notice him. Did that say more about his current appearance or them?

Stubbornly, or perhaps desperately, Shelock began to limp his way outside. He didn't care if they said it was only psychosomatic. It still hurt like hell.

Like the shadow that he'd become Sherlock slipped away and disappeared into the heavy rain outside.

* * *

Aaron Hotchner had faced a lot of difficult decisions during his career. Some of them were actually about life and death. Yet somehow this was worse than anything else. The psychological evaluations on his team were pure agony to read.

Alex was exhausted, among many other things. During her latest meeting with the therapist she revealed that she'd received a job offer from the opposite coast of the country. She carried the paper along constantly, testing how it felt.

Penelope was, as expected, the most open about her feelings. Every single day upon coming to work she expected to see Spencer. Each new disappointment smashed a new piece of her heart.

JJ wasn't the same kind, gentle woman she once was. It was far worse than after her return to the team. No one got through the armor she'd built around herself. She and Will were having it rough.

David had simply shut down. All the man admitted was that he drank more on his spare time, now. Aaron dreaded when it'd affect on his friend's ability to work.

And Derek… Derek was incredibly angry. It didn't come as a surprise to Aaron after he had to physically pull the man off of an UnSub. It was like an explosion waiting to happen.

Aaron had already lost one member of the BAU-family. He failed to save Spencer, yet again and for the last time. How in the world was he going to keep the rest of the team from falling apart? Was trying not to let the team fall apart even the right thing to do?

He'd been so deep in thought that he shuddered a little when the door of his office opened after a brief knock. He frowned at the expression on the arrival's face. "What is it?"

Penelope gulped heavily. Her eyes seemed oddly bright and moist. "Emily… Emily just called. She got Sherlock and Mycroft to say 'yes'."

* * *

Even without opening his eyes Mycroft was vaguely aware of the fact that he had company. He smelled a familiar perfume. He was almost able to distinguish their voices. He opened his eyes halfway to discover a familiar face. He didn't need to see Emily Prentiss' almost perfectly hidden shock to know that he looked terrible. Signs of immense grief and guilt were loud and clear on her face, too.

For a couple of seconds they stared at each other. Then Mycroft inhaled heavily, unable to ease the tension that took over each of his muscles. "Sherlock?" Vaguely he wondered if he sounded as bizarre to her as to himself. To his malfunctioning ears it was nothing more than a pathetic, hoarse wheeze.

As a response Emily offered a hearing aid towards him. There was no misreading the stern look in her eyes. "Wear this or I won't say a word."

Mycroft loathed the item with every fibre of his being. But if this was what it took to get some news… With a dark look on his face he took the hearing aid roughly and put it on.

"We finally found him. We've got him on constant surveillance", she reassured him. Something about her tense posture didn't fill him with comfort and promise, though. "He'll get all the help that he needs."

Relief made Mycroft's heart thud once too many.

He could barely hear a thing without the aid. He was still in immense pain more often than not due to the bullet that'd been fired at him. Each and every night was full of horrifying dreams that made him wake up to his own scream. His eating disorder had returned with force that left him with no other choice but to check in to proper treatment. Yet somehow Sherlock's disappearance as soon as the man was discharged a week ealier was the worst part. He'd already failed and lost one brother. He couldn't bear the thought of facing such again.

"Good." Brief. Hollow. But Mycroft just couldn't find enough spark from within for more.

If Emily was confused or offended by his tone she didn't let it show. They sat in a perfect silence for the longest time, staring at the rain beating the world outside. Both feeling far too much for comfort.

Emily cleared her throat. Did she just wipe her eyes? "So… Ready to go?"

Of course Mycroft was nowhere near ready to go home. But they'd already postponed Spencer's funeral by seven weeks in hopes that his brothers would attend. Mycroft was going to be there, no matter what. Even if they never got the chance to really know each other.

Mycroft nodded stiffly. Something finally occurred to him while he was packing up whatever little he'd need on his short, horrible journey. "Emily?" He spent a few seconds trying to figure out the right words. "I'm sorry, for your loss." Formal and bland, certainly. But if there were correct words for _this_ he failed to find them.

For a moment Emily appeared surprised. Then gave him a sad, tiny smile. "He was your brother, Mycroft."

He shrugged. He squeezed his bag unnecessarily hard while a dizzy spell hit him, reminding him of a skipped breakfast. And dinner. "He was yours, too." It hadn't taken more than one glimpse at the BAU-team to figure out that they were so much more than just friends or colleagues, even if they tried to hide behind using surnames.

Emily didn't say anything to that. They left the tiny, bleak room in a heavy yet surprisingly comfortable silence. Two soldiers preparing for one of the hardest battles of their entire lives.

* * *

Sherlock went to the only place in the world that felt like a home anymore.

Just like always John's grave had a sea of flowers and candles covering it. A lot of fans and friends, even people they'd managed to help, wanted to pay their respects. It should've comforted Sherlock to know that his blogger wouldn't be forgotten. It didn't. He just wanted his best friend back.

Sherlock slumped down heavily, not caring about his clothes when they were already filthy and reeked. He was immensely relieved to get his weight off the leg that was flaming with agony. His eyes were hurting, too, immensely. He hated it. He pulled his legs to his chest the best as he could and wrapped both of his arms tightly around them, jarring the barely healed gunshot wound on his side in the process.

"You told me that you're done being alone. Remember? Just before…" Was that really his voice? Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He'd never know about the treacherous tears that escaped. "Well… I'm done being alone, too."

"You're not alone, you idiot." The familiar voice made shivers run down his back. "You never have been and you never will be."

Sherlock peered over his shoulder. For a moment he could've sworn that he saw John standing there. But far too quickly the illusion faded, revealing the grief stricken face of Greg. It was the first time since the disaster they met. It was unbelievable how much they'd both changed in less than two months.

Eventually Greg took a step closer, glancing at all the flowers and candles. The DI blinked with surprise and something else. "How about that…" The man appeared genuinely touched. "Well, there were a lot of people at his funeral, too."

"How should I know? They didn't even let me attend." True, Sherlock had been recovering from life threatening injuries. And he quite possibly wouldn't have been able to handle it. But not being included when his most important person was buried… Sherlock fixed his glare at John's grave, which stood right next to those of Mary and their baby girl. "He just left!" It was the most bitter accusation that'd ever left his mouth. "What was he thinking, just leaving like that?"

He felt Greg take a step closer. He also felt the man's sorrow. "His girls needed him", the DI pointed out softly.

Sherlock snorted. "So do I", he snarled. Under different circumstances such an admission might've shocked him. At the moment he just didn't care.

It took a couple of seconds before Greg managed to sigh. "I have a feeling that John knew. Why else do you imagine it's raining like this?"

A lump appeared to Sherlock's throat at those words. It took longer than it should've to fight past it. "Sentiment", he scoffed.

"Yeah, I know. A horrible thing." It sounded like Greg might mean it.

The loaded silence continued for a remarkably long time. It ended to Greg groaning loudly. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock…! The funeral's tomorrow. And you're high up to your eyeballs."

Sherlock shrugged, tightening his arms around his legs when a tidal wave of guilt came crashing in. He had no intention of handling what was to come without the comfort of a steady buzz. His sobriety wouldn't be able to bring Spencer back to life. Wouldn't give him the chance to step backwards in time and get answers to all those 'what ifs'. "What difference does it make?"

Greg never got the chance to comment on that. Because just then they heard approaching steps. Mycroft eventually stood a few steps away, dressed in his usual attire and even carrying an umbrella. His older brother's expression had been carefully moulded into the usual mask of cool indifference. Never before had the outlook seemed as much like an illusion to Sherlock as it did then. He _hated_ it.

"Ready for the show, then?" Sherlock sneered.

"Yes." Mycroft's eyes didn't have enough life to show if those words affected him in any way. "You?"

"Obviously." Sherlock pushed himself up, no matter how much it hurt. He squeezed his cane to a point where it was a miracle the item didn't break. "So, brother dear… Into battle."

Sherlock didn't look back as he hobbled away from the graveyard. Didn't dare to with how loud the call of the ghosts was. If he did he might've never found the strength and will to ever take another step again.

* * *

It had been clear from the beginning that they couldn't just bury Spencer. Closing him into a dark, cold tomb for all eternity… It would've been his worst nightmare. Instead they decided to set him free in the only way they could.

Sun was starting to set as the bizarre, expanded family gathered to a boat and took off towards the open waters. They went on in a nearly perfect silence for about an hour until they found a spot that they seemed to reach a wordless agreement on.

None of them was entirely sure what they should do. There weren't guidelines for situations such as this one. With heavy hearts and trembling hands they each took their turns in grabbing a fist-full of his ashes. The setting sun cast its light on the falling remains, making each particle shine oddly. It might've been beautiful, had it not been so very grim.

Quite often people say that in the moment of death one's life flashes before their eyes. It's one part of the truth. The life of the diseased also flashes by the eyes of the loved ones when they're saying goodbye.

Alex was the brave first one to go. She opened her mouth several times but in the end nothing came out. She wasn't ashamed of the tears that filled her eyes when the bits of Spencer she had slipped through her fingers.

* * *

/ _While they waited for Spencer to possibly wake up, for the inevitable brutal goodbyes, they took turns. No one could bear watching his unconscious face for long, knowing what was ahead. There, lay in the hospital bed, he looked so much like her son that it shattered her heart all over again. In those hopelessly dark hours of the night she found it easy to believe that there was no justice left in the world._

 _She couldn't let him feel that way, too. She refused to let him feel scared and alone. So she closed her eyes and focused on how he looked when he was alive. Color on his cheeks, without his hair having been shaved away. She focused and started singing the same lullaby that used to comfort her son._

 _The memory of Spencer's smile refused to leave her alone and she wondered bitterly if she'd ever get to see it again._ /

* * *

David felt like someone had placed a ton's weight on his shoulders as he let go of Spencer. Watched as the most alive person he'd ever seen got carried away by the wind and eventually fell to the water. It looked so wrong that it made him feel sick.

* * *

/ _Weeks ago he offered to help the hospital staff prepare Spencer's body. How still and cold Spencer was then clashed horribly with the rest of his memories. The Spencer he knew was the brilliant man whose eyes shone radiantly when he wrote impossibly quickly, putting together pieces of baffling puzzles._ /

* * *

Aaron stepped forward next. For once he felt like he couldn't be the strong, stone hard leader they expected him to be. Some unit chief, he was. The proof of it sat on his hand until he all but threw it away, let go although it was the last thing he wanted to do.

* * *

/ _Against his will Aaron woke up the team. He nearly broke at the hope that lit in their eyes, only to transform into pure agony as they took in the look on his face. Sometimes being a profiler isn't a blessing._

 _Aaron felt choked and sick. But he needed to do this, it was his duty to. "It's… Reid's injuries were too severe." How he managed to talk at all was beyond him. He felt like there'd been a million shards of glass gnawing at his insides. "He… He isn't going to make it." Those were quite possibly the most terrible words that'd ever left his mouth. Something Spencer once said kept echoing in his head, taunting him._

 _'_ If we can't keep each other safe, then why are we even doing any of this? _'_ /

* * *

Emily took her turn next, boldly defying the fact that her legs barely carried her at the moment. It was such a long time from when she last saw him. And now… Now all she had left were dust and memories.

* * *

/ _Emily was the last person in the room after Spencer's passing. Waiting. Pleading with who or whatever happened to be listening. She came back from the dead, once. What justice was there in a world where a man who put together a star for her couldn't do the same?_ /

* * *

It took absolutely all Penelope had to take the two steps separating her from the boat's edge. Her hand shook miserably while she outstretched it. Her fingers… They refused to break their hold. Wouldn't let go of Spencer.

Eventually Derek stepped up. Ever so gently he helped her, until the ashes were finally set free. Watching the fly away Penelope finally did something she'd been desperate to get the chance to do since the beginning of this horror story.

She broke down to loud, heart wrenching sobs and if it wasn't for Derek's quick reflexes she would've slumped to her knees.

* * *

/ _Strangely enough, Penelope dreamt of Spencer and 'Doctor Who' while waiting for news on his condition. There was a very, very familiar scarf wrapped around his neck while he approached the TARDIS. At the entrance, on the last possible moment, he turned to look towards her. Just before the door closed he waved at her with a smile._

 _Penelope woke up to Aaron's sombre face and somehow her heart knew instantly that she'd never, ever go to a sci-fi convention again._ /

* * *

JJ didn't realize that she was crying openly while she took her turn. The night was fast approaching, making the shadows longer. The depths that what was left of Spencer fell into seemed endless.

JJ wiped her eyes, oblivious to the fact that more tears came immediately. "Take… Take a good care of my baby girl and my sister, Spence", she choked out. (1) "I… I miss you all, so much."

* * *

/ _Once upon a time JJ comforted Spencer for weeks after Emily's fake death. Swallowing the roaring guilt and pain she held him together through those endless nights. Fought to keep him from slipping into the shadows._

 _JJ was the first one to see Spencer coming out of anesthesia. Just one look into his hazy eyes told her the awful truth far more clearly than Aaron's words did. She'd lost the fight._ /

* * *

Derek was the last member of the team to step up. Gently letting go of Penelope he made the wrenching journey to the boat's edge. The wind picked up just as he let go, grabbing a greedy hold of the ashes. They spun around, dancing wildly through the air. Derek hated himself a little for the fact that the sight repulsed him.

Just a little more time, that was all he wanted…!

* * *

/ _Derek wasn't entirely sure what he did right after a doctor confirmed that Spencer was gone. He did know that it was over two hours later when he finally came back to himself and his knuckles were bloodied. Somehow he'd ended up to the hospital's chapel. All alone, staring at the cross hanging on the wall. The sight of it filled him with so much wrath that it threatened to suffocate him._

 _What Spencer once told the team about his death-experience kept repeating itself in Derek's head. Over and over and over again. In the end he began to scream at the top of his lungs and wasn't sure if he'd ever manage to stop._ /

* * *

Eventually it was Sherlock and Mycroft's turn. With heavy hearts they let go of the brother they only just found. It was bitter irony, really. The two of them having far too few memories and the others burdened by entirely too many.

In silent, mutual understanding they each lit two candles, then placed them to the water. One for each dear soldier that fell in the fight against the Moriarty twins. With the dark having fallen the tiny lights looked unbelievably beautiful. They only hoped that wherever Spencer and John were they saw the beacons. Saw and knew that they would never, ever be forgotten.

And maybe, by some miracle, they'd find a bit of light for themselves as well. Because their strange family unit had lost far too much. And at the moment they had no idea how to find the way out of the dark.

* * *

TBC

* * *

1) To avoid confusion… This refers to the miscarriage we know JJ had during her absence.

A/N: Gosh, so much pain…! (wipes eyes) But maybe, just maybe, the next one offers a bit of hope as well. Those poor things could seriously need such!

NEXT UP: Parts 2 and 3, 'Midnight' and 'Dawn'.

Soooo… Any good, at all? PLEASE, do let me know! Hearing from you always makes my day.

Until next time! I really hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!


	12. Epilogue, part 2 of 3 – Midnight

A/N: Phew! I ALMOST didn't manage an update today. But here I am! (BEAMS) Yosh?

TONS of thank yous for all the reviews, listings and affection! It's been a LONG ride, with this and the prequel. I'm overjoyed that you'd been sticking around for all this time!

Awkay, before I go all mushy on you… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

Tissues…?

* * *

Epilogue, part 2 of 3 – Midnight

* * *

After the wrenching funeral ceremony the shattered group came to a silent, more or less begrudging agreement. None of them felt like spending the night apart. Once Aaron had called Jessica and JJ had sent a text to Will they made their way to David's mansion.

They'd all be under the same rooftop yet with a lot of space in case they needed a breather, which was a quite perfect match.

It wasn't a surprise to any of them that they couldn't sleep. Waiting for the coffee maker to get ready Emily inspected her nails and frowned at their condition. She'd honestly imagined that she was past that annoying habit. But then again, the circumstances lately had been… somewhat exceptional.

"I knew that I couldn't be the only one after some coffee."

Turning her head Emily saw JJ walking in. The other woman appeared pale and her face was the picture of grief. Emily imagined that she herself didn't look much better. She hadn't dared to face the mirror since that morning. She focused her eyes on the slowly dripping dark liquid. "It felt appropriate", he murmured.

"I know."

Apparently the rest of the team felt the same way. Aaron was the third one to appear. Neither of them had the heart to point out that his usual steel hard mask broke for a few seconds at the sight of the coffee maker. Derek followed a couple of minutes later, one arm wrapped protectively around Penelope's shoulders. It was impossible to tell which one of them needed the embrace more. David and Alex were the last ones to walk in. She wiped her eyes as subtly as possible while accepting the mug JJ offered her.

For a few moments none of them was entirely sure what they were supposed to do. In the end David was the one who lifted his mug, even if his hand wasn't entirely steady. "To Reid."

One by one they all joined in. There wasn't a fully dry eye in the room. "To Reid", the rest of them chorused.

For a few seconds it was almost possible to imagine that there were eight of them gathered together.

* * *

Mycroft felt like he'd been intruding while he attempted to settle into one of guest rooms, feeling sick to his stomach and impossibly drained. What was he thinking anyway, coming here? Yes, he was Spencer's brother by blood. But he never got the chance to really learn to know the man. They tried to keep in touch after meeting for the first time. All that led to was possibly hinting the Moriarty twins to Spencer's tracks.

He'd been right all along. And yet again he didn't like it. Spencer would've been much better off without ever hearing about his missing family members. Maybe the younger man would even still be alive.

Mycroft groaned and rubbed his eyes as hard as he dared to. Even with the infection having been taken care of long ago they still stung and itched like mad sometimes. According to his doctor it was a miracle that his eyesight hadn't suffered. Mycroft didn't exactly feel like believing in miracles at the moment.

Mycroft was just on his way towards a bathroom when the room's door opened quickly after a knock. Without really waiting for a permission David entered, carrying a sandwich. "Prentiss reported that you haven't eaten anything in ages."

Mycroft stiffened, his stomach knotting instantly as a protest against consuming anything. "Thank you", he stated tersely, trying to sound as polite as possible. Surely Spencer wouldn't appreciate him lashing out at the man's makeshift family? Foolish sentiment… "But I'm not hungry."

David didn't appear impressed. "Well, that's too bad. Because from what I've heard people need food on occasion." The older man placed the sandwich to a nearby desk. "You know… If there's anything you'd like to ask, or talk about…"

Mycroft stiffened. "I wasn't much of a brother to him while he was still alive." It was a sad truth but honesty nonetheless. And he'd never forgive himself for all those years that'd gone to waste. "Why should I start now when it's too late?"

David sighed. "Listen to me very carefully." The agent's gaze was nothing short of demanding, left no room for objections. "What happened to Reid… It wasn't your fault. Moriarty picked him because he was the son of Erik Collins. So stop torturing yourself. You've been through enough without giving yourself a hard time over things that were in no way under your control."

For once in his life Mycroft had no idea what to say. How to explain that some lame reassurances weren't going to banish the beast inside that was eating him alive. That every time he fell asleep he was buried alive once more, unable to do a thing while he heard Spencer, Sherlock and even John calling out to him, begging his help. He'd stopped taking sleeping pills because those nightmares were worse torture than any amount of insomnia.

Mycroft, of course, didn't voice any of those things. Instead he nodded with forced politeness, creating the best smile he could possibly muster. "Thank you." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Now, if you don't mind… I'd like to get some sleep."

He didn't really register what David said upon leaving. He did feel the hand squeezing his shoulder that made him tense up, mostly from surprise. Then he was alone, David's words echoing hollowly against the walls of his Mind Palace.

' _Not your fault._ '

He was the one Spencer came to about Erik Collins. No matter what the man claimed it was about trust. Such Mycroft didn't manage to be worthy of.

' _Not your fault._ '

A stunning amount of flashbacks to the brief time they had together burst into his mind.

' _Not your fault._ '

Mycroft headed to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

As soon as David left the room he felt that something was horribly wrong. At first he imagined that it was about Mycroft. Then he sensed the nervous, electric energy lingering in the whole building. With a frown he made his way downstairs. Aaron was the first one he encountered. "What's going on?"

Aaron's eyes were even more solemn than usual. The man's whole posture appeared painfully tense. "Sherlock's missing."

* * *

Sherlock had never felt or been quite so alone in his entire life. Once upon a time he claimed that alone protected him. To hell with it. To hell with John for teaching him such a brutal lesson.

It was getting cold by the time Sherlock found an abandoned playground. Someone's glove lay there as a testament of the life that used to fill the place. He kept staring at it while letting himself slump to the ground, his back pressed against a tree. He wrapped his arms tightly around his knees as fast as he could, almost like attempting to hug himself. Despite his customary coat the cold and something far darker were making him tremble pitiably. The vial in his pocket seemed to burn his skin.

Sherlock didn't need anyone telling him how it would all be alright. He played a game and his whole world burned in the process. Now he'd make fucking sure that it wouldn't hurt anymore, at least for a little while. This was the only way to stop thinking, to stop remembering.

His hand was already reaching towards the vial when a much too familiar voice spoke. So very real that it took his breath away. "Don't do that, you idiot." It was a heartbreaking plea. A hand pressed against his, stopping it, and he could almost remember how the touch felt. "Don't delete me."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He was shaking even worse than before. He snorted. It came out far more moist than he'd expected. "What are you expecting me to do, then? Because this…" He gestured wildly with his hand. "… is _torture_! I don't know how to do this anymore!"

"Do what? Be alone?" It was John's turn to snort. "Bloody hell, Sherlock…! You're not alone. You'll never be alone again."

Sherlock's jawline tightened. He didn't like the way his eyes felt. "But you're gone."

"Not really, Sherlock." John's voice was already fading away but those words still struck him loud and clear. "I'll be in your Mind Palace whenever you need me. I promise."

Sherlock wasn't sure if he believed that. If he believed anything at all anymore. The cold was closing in on him and he curled even more tightly into himself. It felt like there'd been a bomb inside his chest, ready to combust at any given moment. It hurt so much that if he hadn't gritted his teeth together with all his might he would've started to scream.

And then he was alone once more, without even ghosts to keep him company.

* * *

On the other side of the city JJ and Alex were desperately trying to catch even a glimpse of the runaway detective. They were tired, worried and furious. Not the most fruitful combination.

They needed a distraction. Even if a terrible one. "I… heard you and Hotch talking the other day, when we came home from a case", JJ admitted. She glanced towards her companion. "He said something about moving arrangements."

Alex sighed. The woman's shoulders slumped. "When you've seen too many horror stories… At some point you just can't take it anymore."

Shock silenced JJ for a very long time. "Are you… Have you thought this through?"

Alex nodded. Her eyes were sadder than the younger woman had ever seen them. "I just… I can't do this anymore without losing too much of myself." She looked away, focusing on the landscape flashing by. "Too many memories."

JJ would've wanted to ask further but she knew that Alex wouldn't asnwer. Instead she breathed in deep, focusing on the road. "It's sad to see you go", she admitted earnestly. She went on after a long hesitation. "Especially since you're not the only one leaving."

She imagined that it was so quiet that the other wouldn't hear. That's why she shivered when Alex spoke out, a knowing look on her face. "Does this have something to do with why you spent an hour in Hotch's office last week?"

JJ nodded slowly. She wasn't supposed to tell anyone about this but since Alex already seemed to guess… "He's… looking for a replacement." She brought a tender hand to her stomach. "And… So am I."

Alex stared at her with suddenly huge eyes. It took a few moments before the woman managed to speak. "What?"

JJ nodded. And despite everything terrible that'd happened and was still happening she managed to smile through the tears filling her eyes. "Twelve weeks."

The world around them was pitch black. The grief in their hearts would never fade. But at that moment they laughed like a pair of fools, vigorously welcoming the brand new beacon of new hope.

* * *

In another car and part of the city Derek and Penelope were speeding on as quickly as was reasonable. "What the hell was that bastard thinking?" Derek growled. "This… We don't need _this_ , especially now!"

"I… have a feeling that he wasn't thinking." Penelope, who'd been scrolling busily on her cell phone while casting constant glances at their environment, had gone pale. "Just… Take a look at this."

Fighting the urge to just kick the gass pedal harder Derek pulled over and took the item from her. Apparently she'd been examining a site some loyal followers had put together in John's memory. Sherlock had posted several comments. Snarky remarks, threats, declarations of hate, even pleas. The latest one was, however, what'd caught Penelope's eye.

' _I want to go home, John._ '

Derek swallowed, feeling very cold all of a sudden. "You don't think…?" He trailed off.

"I… I have no idea." Did Penelope just wipe her eyes? "Have you looked at him? It's… It's like he isn't even there anymore."

Derek groaned, rubbing his face roughly with two badly shaking hands. If they lost a third he swore to god…! "I can't believe that the asshole is doing this."

"Sherlock…"

Derek growled, all of a sudden furious because it was far safer than the bottomless grief that tried to swallow him up in whole. "Yeah, yeah, he's grieving. He's depressed. I know! But…"

"No!" Penelope pointed frantically. "Sherlock!"

In a flash Derek looked towards the suggested direction. True enough, the detective was sitting there, less than fifteen steps away. Now, in retrospect, the agent realized that he should've seen the signs far sooner. That he should've known how deep Sherlock had fallen. Well, now that he did know he wasn't going to just stand aside and let the man drown.

Derek's jaw tightened while he baced himself. "Wait here", he commanded a bit more harshly than he'd intended. "Don't interfere unless it's absolutely necessary." This wasn't going to be pleasant and he didn't want Penelope involved.

He wasn't sure if she replied or not. All his attention was on Sherlock. The man looked like a stranger slumped there. Incredibly young and horribly broken.

The sight tore at Derek's heart, even if they weren't exactly friends. It took all he had to keep his tone firm. "Alright, then. Come on. Get up."

Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously. The man gave him a glare that would've startled most. "I fail to see how this is any of your business."

Derek stepped closer. When Sherlock tensed up it took the agent a second to realize what caused the reaction. Guilt made his stomach knot a little. "I'm not going to punch you this time. So get up. It's cold and I'm going to get you inside even if I have to drag you there."

Sherlock scoffed. Defeat and bitterness filled the man's eyes. "Just leave me alone already. Why would you even care?"

Derek swallowed hard. It didn't ease the lump in his throat. "Because… Because you're not the only one who just lost his best friend", he bit out. "Spencer and John… Do you honestly think that they'd want to see you do this to yourself?" He knew that he was dangerously close to crossing a line. But adrenaline filled him along with immense agony and he headed straight for the jugular. "John died right after making sure that you'd live! He could've walked away and left you there but he chose not to because he valued your life! Are you seriously going to spit at that sacrifice like this? Is this how little his memory means to you?"

Derek definitely received a reaction. In a flash the detective was up and just as quickly neither of them was. The fist that smashed against Derek's cheek was harder than steel, full of the same hellish ache that lingered inside his own body. Their eyes clashed, carrying helpless rage and misery. Sherlock's fist rose again. It never came down. Instead the man froze entirely, like someone had pressed a pause button. His eyes wide, absolutely all of him shaking.

Derek stared, feeling dizzy and sick. "Sherlock?" No reaction. "Hey…"

Still nothing. Slowly, cautiously, Derek pushed himself to a sitting position. It wasn't until then he noticed the tears rolling down the detective's cheeks.

Derek knew that he was risking his very life. And in full honesty it was rather uncharacteristic of him. But in that hopeless, pitch black moment there was only one thing he could imagine doing. Not daring to question his decision any further he wrapped his arms around the other man. Sealing them into an embrace they both needed desperately although neither would've admitted it. It was as much of a shock that Sherlock didn't push him away as it was that the hug happened in the first place. Both of them were crying silently, Derek finally unleashing the tears that'd been building up since the day Spencer slipped away.

Inside the car Penelope had been watching the encounter with wide, worried eyes. When Sherlock attacked Derek her hand already reached out for the door handle. Until the situation changed once more. Transformed into the about last thing she would've known to expect.

Right before her baffled eyes the two men broke down. Finally let their gaping wounds be cleansed a little. All of a sudden two people who not long ago would've been ready to strangle each other were seeking comfort from one another. Penelope didn't even notice that she was crying.

 _See this, Spencer and John? This is what you left behind._

* * *

Quite far away, in a third car, Aaron sighed while putting away his cell phone. "That was Garcia. They found Sherlock."

David, who'd been driving, nodded. The man's shoulders relaxed considerably. "In one piece?"

"More or less."Aaron sighed again, running a weary hand down his face. "It's been a long day", he admitted.

David nodded. "A long couple of months", the older man pointed out. Sharp eyes glanced towards him. "Is that why you're leaving the FBI?" The senior agent smiled mirthlessly at his stun. "I've been around long enough know when someone's going, Aaron."

Aaron's face tightened. His fist clenched, then opened again. "I can't do this anymore", he confessed in a broken voice that he barely recognized.

"I understand", David soothed, his voice full of certainty. A painfully clear flash of Spencer's smiling face crossed both their minds. A grim silence lingered. "We're two old war horses who have seen too many younger soldiers fall."

Aaron's gaze examined his friend. Took in the new wrinkles. "When are you going to leave the battlefield?" he inquired.

David smiled sadly. "I've been in this madness too long to know anything different." The older man took in a long, heavy breath. "You know… Back at my house there's a bottle of Scottish with our names on it."

* * *

After the others left Emily, who'd offered to stand by in case Sherlock returned and to make sure that Mycroft wouldn't hear about this additional drama, busied herself with doing the dishes. Not that there would've been a lot of that since none of them had been exactly famished. She scrubbed the plates, glasses and mugs so hard that her fingers hurt. None of that helped with the fact that all she wanted to do was to scream at the top of her lungs.

Nothing was making sense anymore.

"Remember what I told you, back then? How while you grieved the loss of one friend… I grieved the loss of six." She wiped her eyes. So what if she ended up splashing some water and making a mess of her makeup? "It… I shouldn't have."

Hadn't she lost enough loved ones, friends and colleagues to know that it just didn't compare? At least she'd had the frail, desperate hope of one day getting to go back. At least she'd known that they were still alive, that they had each other. Spencer wasn't going to come back. She could only hope that he wasn't as lonely as she was during her hide and seek.

All of a sudden one of the glasses shattered under her brutal handling. A shard of glass cut her hand, making her hiss instantly. She slammed a kitchen towel against the injury as quickly as she could, swearing under her breath. As the bleeding began to stop it occurred to Emily that the house far entirely too quiet.

She gulped. "Mycroft?" Shouldn't he have been able to hear her, even with how huge the building was? Maybe he wasn't wearing his hearing aid. "Mycroft?" she tried again, louder. Still nothing.

Emily's heart took a couple of extra leaps while she began to move, dread swelling inside her with every single step. Something was horribly wrong. She could feel that with every single cell in her body. She picked up pace, eventually breaking into a run.

"Mycroft?"

His guest room's door was closed but not locked. Emily knocked even though her first instinct was to burst right in. "Mycroft, if you don't answer me right now I'm coming in", she warned. Her tone wasn't even nearly as stern as she would've wanted it to be.

Still nothing. Emily gulped laboriously, her pulse beginning to race as horrible scenarios flooded through her head. Without wasting another second she entered and looked around. In seconds her instincts led her to the room's tiny bathroom. As soon as Emily had wrenched the door open she froze. A gasp slipped through her lips while frost filled her entire body.

* * *

TBC, for a one more chapter

* * *

A/N: Oh dear…! So… much… pain. Will things turn for the better or for worse before this tale ends?

PLEASE, do leave a review! It'd mean A LOT, especially since we're at the final steps of this loooong story.

Awkay, I REALLY have to get going now. Until the next and (wipes eyes) last time! I really hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!


	13. Epilogue, part 3 of 3 – Dawn

A/N: With the sad note of the previous chapter I thought that I owed you guys a day faster update than usual. Sooooooooo…

THANK YOU, so very much, for your reviews! They seriously do warm my heart. It's been a long, awesome ride! I'm thrilled that you've all decided to take it with me.

HANG IN THERE, FOLKS! It's almost over, now. The pain, the hurricane. Now let's find out what kind of an ending our beloved family will get.

* * *

Epilogue, part 3 of 3 – Dawn

* * *

The clock had already reached the early hours of the morning while the group sat in a hospital's waiting room. Stiff from having been on those painfully uncomfortable chairs for ages, exhausted to their bones from far too little sleep and entirely too much stress. Disappointed, worried, furious and upset.

This felt like some ridiculous, absurd nightmare.

Alex was the brave one to approach Sherlock, who'd isolated himself to the room's furthest and darkest corner. She could see the way he was shaking and sweating but she also noticed that he quite clearly wasn't high. Which didn't mean that he would've been in any way okay.

Making up her mind Alex got up and ended up to the chair beside his. There was nothing but sympathy on her face while she examined the shaken young man. "He'll be fine, you know?" she pointed out gently, hoping to reassure him.

She expected a retort. Or at very least a roll of eyes. Instead Sherlock nodded barely visibly, adamantly refusing to as much as look at her in favor of keeping his eyes on the room's door. He appeared utterly drained, ready to nod off at any second.

"Get some sleep", Alex suggested in her kindest tone. She went on without giving him the chance to snarl a refusal. "Mycroft… When he wakes up he's going to need you in your full strength. So get some rest."

It was unclear whether Sherlock heard her or not. The man's gaze seemed to linger somewhere only he could see. "I didn't even notice it." The words came out in a hiss but there was a bizarre, nearly defeated sidetone to them. "I… I always deduced it, before. Why couldn't I see it?"

Alex would've desperately wanted to grab his hand but had a feeling that physical contact wouldn't have been welcomed. So she bit back all her instincts and balled her hands. "Because you're grieving. And struggling", she pointed out softly. "You're only human, Sherlock. And there's nothing wrong with it."

Sherlock looked at her with strange, unreadable eyes. His mouth opened but in the end nothing came out. Instead he resumed to guarding the door with a heated glare. Although his posture didn't relax even slightly Alex felt that her presence had been accepted. So she stayed by his side, refusing to leave him all alone.

Dawn was already breaking when a nurse who seemed just as tired as they felt entered the room. The small smile on her face instantly banished some of their worst worries. Well, that was the case with most of them. Sherlock bounced up instantly and was on her like a public prosecutor. "How is my brother?"

The nurse didn't seem even slightly taken aback. Instead her expression softened, obviously seeing something that only a profiler was supposed to be able to. "Let me start with assuring you that he will be fine. We're keeping him asleep for now but everything looks promising." Her expression sombred a little. "As you know he had a heart attack. I've… been notified that he's suffered from a eating disorder. An active relapse most likely helped cause his condition, along with an alarmingly high blood pressure. That we'll be able to help with via medication. We'll be monitoring his heart closely to determine whether he needs medication for that problem as well. Obviously he'll also need nutrition counseling." Sherlock's snort brought a twinkle to her eyes. "Not the easiest patient, then? Don't worry. Alice, to whose hands I'll give him once he recuperates a bit, is used to tough clients." The nurse then frowned. "There… are also wounds on his hands that required stitches. Do you know what caused them?"

"He broke a mirror." Emily's eyes revealed that the sight still haunted her. And that she wasn't interested in saying another word more about it.

The nurse seemed to understand. "Alright, then. The stitches will most likely be removed before he gets to go home."

"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded sharply, clearly reaching the edge of his patience.

"Room 271. One floor up, third door to the right." The nurse stifled a yawn. "Usually I wouldn't allow a patient in his condition any visitors. But I've been notified that this case is… special."

Sherlock wasn't listening. The detective was already out the door. The team found it best to follow, quickly. "We'll try to keep the damage to the minimum", David promised. It spoke volumes that the long suffering nurse didn't even try to inform them of limitations to the amount of visitors.

What the team discovered when they reached the room halted their haste effectively. For a remarkably long time they wondered if they were seeing things. Apparently not.

Mycroft looked horribly vulnerable, hooked on all the tubes and machinery. Their focus, however, locked on Sherlock. For almost a full minute more the detective stood by his brother's side, staring at the man intently. Without a doubt taking in every single trace to his condition, perhaps even trying to convince himself that yes, Mycroft was still alive and fighting. Then, finally giving in to the fatigue, the man slumped to the chair that'd been dragged beside the bed. He was possibly asleep before he was all the way down.

"Do you guys think we can leave them alone long enough to get some coffee?" Penelope whispered, desperate hope in her voice. They did, letting the two have some privacy. After downing the beverages they remained there for a remarkably long time, keeping watch on the brothers Spencer left behind.

* * *

Mycroft's time in the gray hue was disturbed by occasional, brief flashes. He had no idea if they were real or not. Not that he would've been in the state of body and mind to care much.

Did someone cry? Certainly not. He could've sworn that he felt a hand holding his but dismissed it quickly. Was that Sherlock, hissing that he was a moron? Yes, sounded about right. He actually tried to reach out towards the familiar voice but didn't quite manage to.

Eventually it was a voice he couldn't quite recognize that reached him. Was it John? Anthea? Emily? "… already lost far too much, Mycroft. Don't you dare leave Sherlock. Don't you dare…!"

Mycroft would never know that he woke up in earnest only three hours later.

* * *

The team had lost track on how many days had passed. Two, possibly three. Mycroft was asleep more often than awake, his body trying to regain its strength. While the rest of the team took turns keeping an eye on them Sherlock never left. The brothers were bickering or smart-mouthing each other more often than not but the team noticed the subtle signs. Sherlock ate, only small meals but still, in his own silent way encouraging Mycroft to do the same. With each passing day some of the tension melted away from the younger man. The shadows haunting Sherlock's eyes didn't disappear, though. Nor did the shadows in Mycroft's. But the older brother was fighting. His broken heart kept beating stubbornly.

It was Saturday and for once they were all present when there was a knock on the door. In a moment a sandy haired, tired looking man peered in. Seeing them all the arrival coughed nervously, obviously not having expected the audience.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock frowned. "What are you doing here?"

Very quickly the team and DI Gregory Lestrade were introduced. Not initiated by Sherlock, of course. The DI sighed. "I've been looking for you." Sorrow appeared to the older man's eyes. "Anthea… told me that you'd be here."

Sherlock's jawline tightened. Guilt and rage flooded to the man's piercing eyes like a tidal wave. "I assume that you have a reason to be here?"

The everyone's surprise the arrival pulled out a flash drive. They'd already seen the laptop. "I… John, he gave me this a week before… Well. He told me to deliver it to you if…" The DI shifted with discomfort. "I thought I'd wait until your return, but… Maybe this is something you need. I haven't taken a look so I wouldn't know." Greg gestured towards the laptop. "The nurse said that it should be safe to use this here now…"

"Just get on with it", Sherlock snapped, his whole body starting to shake.

At first the BAU-team wondered if they should leave, if they were intruding on something private. But in the end they were rooted to the spot. There was only one file on the flash drive, a video. Greg clicked it open after a great deal of hesitation.

The first thing the camera had managed to capture was a screen-full of an oatmeal colored jumper. It took a moment before the static settled enough for them to hear John muttering. "… _this bloody thing on?_ " Eventually confident that yes, it was, John stepped back, settling to a chair. There was a strange look on his face. Furiously determined, sad, nervous and apologetic all at once. The dark shadows around his eyes and his paleness intensified the affect. The doctor cleared his throat. " _It's… It's been two weeks, from Mary. And Sheryl._ " The man was forced to clear his throat again. For a moment moisture lingered in his eyes until it gave room for something harder than any steel. " _We're at war now, Sherlock. I've been to one so I should know. Moriarty's back and… Well, we both survived him once. Sort of._ " The memories were obviously beyond painful. John looked away from the camera for a few seconds before continuing. " _And I don't count on us being quite that lucky a second time. So… I'm making… this, just in case._

John looked into the camera and to Sherlock it felt like his friend had been right there with him. " _After… the fall Ella told me say the things that I'd meant to. Well, this is the last bloody shot I'll get._ " John smiled, just a little bit, although he still looked incredibly sad. " _Thank you, Sherlock. For giving me a purpose. For reminding me what it is like to be alive. Whatever may have happened by the time you see this… Get into that bloody thick skull of yours that I never, ever regretted any of it. Not really. Not for even a second. It's thanks to you I made it this far. And don't you dare have regrets, either. It was amazing while it lasted. But nothing lasts forever._

John sighed heavily and leaned forward. " _I'm so, so sorry for leaving you like this, Sherlock. But at least I'm not abandoning you all alone. There are so many people around you. A million cases that you'll jump right into. The world still needs its only consulting detective, whether you believe it or not._ " John swallowed and held a pause to gather himself. " _You died for me once. Remember? And you were ready to die a second._ " The former army medic snorted just as Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction. " _Please. Don't imagine that I didn't figure out what that air-strip meeting was all about. Unlike you seem to think I'm not a complete idiot. You've died for me and killed for me. Now I'll be a selfish arse and ask you to do a one more thing for me. The most difficult thing._ " The doctor attempted to smile but it didn't come out quite right. " _Live for me, Sherlock. Live, don't just exist because I know how boring you find breathing. I know that it feels so, trust me I know, but the world didn't end even if I'm not in it anymore. You survived everything you did for a reason. Spend every day like you're around for the both of us. And for Sheryl, too, because I know that she would've loved you. Remember that I'm eternally grateful that you're still in the world. And that I got to be a part of yours._

With those as his parting words John got up even though his feet didn't seem entirely steady and did a one last military salute. The man then marched his way to the camera and was about to switch it off before peering in once more. " _Oh, and Mycroft? Because I know that you've somehow gotten your hands on this, too. Take a good care of Sherlock, you hear? Because he needs you, no matter how little he likes to admit it._ _I… I did my best._ _Hopefully until the end. Now it's your turn._ " If John's expression was anything to go by it was the biggest and most important task he'd ever given anyone. The utmost sign of trust. Then the doctor did switch off the camera, leaving them staring at the black screen.

For almost a full minute it was completely, utterly quiet and still. It was like time itself had frozen. The only thing that remained was the echo of John's words.

"Well…", David breathed out at last. The man blinked quickly. "That was…" He trailed off.

"… John." There were tears in Greg's eyes that the man didn't even try to wipe away. "That… That was very John."

Apparently that was all Sherlock could handle at the moment. Before any of them could do a thing the detective stormed out of the room. Slamming the door as dramatically as possible.

Greg sighed and was already about to get up. Surprisingly, however, it was Penelope who moved first, wiping her eyes furiously. "I… I'll go", she announced, her voice breaking a little. "I've been meaning to… have words with him, anyway."

Derek frowned. There was some tension on his shoulders. "Are you sure?"

Penelope's moist eyes showed understanding. "He's just a man in pain, chocolate thunder. I'll be okay."

* * *

It took longer than it should've before Penelope found Sherlock. She wasn't a field-profiler. How was she supposed to know to try the hospital's rooftop? The tall Brit stood there, uncomfortably close to the edge. Even from afar she could tell that he was trembling.

Penelope approached slowly. Dread swell in her stomach, forming a solid ball. She opened her mouth but apparently she'd been spotted already. "If you came here to…"  
Penelope didn't pause to listen why he imagined she came. She was more focused on showing him. Because there was something she wanted to give him, from the bottom of her broken heart.

Before Sherlock had the chance to protest, or to see it coming at all, she'd wrapped her arms firmly yet tenderly around him. Holding on with absolutely all her might. Without saying a single word she offered every little bit of affection she could muster.

They lost Spencer. But they still had the chance to look after his brothers. She knew that it was what the youngest Reid would've wanted them to do and she'd be damned if she let him down.

At first Sherlock tensed up immensely, obviously looking for a way out of the situation. Then, swiftly and without a warning, it seemed that all fight left the detective. When the tall, thin form in her arms began to shudder it took Penelope a mighty while to realize what was going on. Without knowing it she became the third person who'd seen him really, genuinely cry.

Sherlock's tears were those of pain. But not all ache is a purely bad thing. Because this immense agony came from the much too certain knowledge that one had to move forward. Penelope understood well because her own tears were the same.

* * *

While the rest of the group fled the room, without a doubt to gather their thoughts, David stayed behind. Although the look on Mycroft's face hadn't changed he noticed how pale the man had grown. "Are you alright?"

Mycroft nodded slowly, not looking at him.

David gave the government official a few seconds. When it became apparent that the man wouldn't talk he did. "Quite the video, John left." He sighed, feeling the impact of those words under his own skin. "I wish that I got to know him better. I have a feeling that I would've liked him."

There was no mirth in Mycroft's smile. But at least it was a honest reaction. "I… could say the same about Spencer."

David shrugged, even when his heart was breaking in his chest. "If you stick around I could help you get to know him", he offered. Not even trying to hide the subtext. He gave the other man a few moments to process. "It sounds like you and Sherlock could us a little time-out right now. Feel free to stay at my mansion for as long as you like."

Mycroft gritted his teeth so hard that it had to hurt. "Thank you, for the offer. But… I'll be here for a while. And… You haven't seen Sherlock on a withdrawal. Or what he can be like. He's…"

David smiled. "… impossible? That's alright." Then, growing far more serious, he leaned forward. "Mycroft, you two are Spencer's brothers. And that makes you our family as well. We… We may have failed him. But we'll fight for the two of you for as long as we can."

When Mycroft looked at him David could tell that he was being profiled. Exhausted yet incredibly sharp eyes stared at him, prepared to spot each and every sign of insincerity. Eventually the verdict was made.

So slowly that it took someone highly experienced to notice Mycroft relaxed, sunk more heavily against his bed. After a couple of seconds of fight the man's eyes drifted closed. Almost as quickly he was fast asleep.

Feeling better than he had in ages David relaxed as well, leaning back on his chair. After considering it for a while he closed his eyes. If he really focused he could almost feel Spencer right there, keeping watch with him.

* * *

The next few months passed by stunningly quickly, in a bizarre hue. As had been apparent from the moment they lost Spencer the BAU-team couldn't really work together anymore. Not when every time they saw each other they felt the failure.

Alex was the first one to leave, almost as soon as Mycroft was discharged from the hospital. The only goodbye she gave them was leaving her badge to the desk that used to be Spencer's. They understood. And they still stayed in touch as often as they could.

Almost at the same time Emily stated that she'd have to return to her new life in England. Which didn't mean that she would've been leaving them behind. They lost her once, too. They'd be damned if they let it happen again.

Penelope's departure from the team was a bit more of a shock. After a few suspicious phone calls she announced that she'd be joining Cooper's team. Derek didn't take the news well but seemed to calm down significantly after a long, private talk with her. The rest of the team would never know what she said to him but whatever it was, they were glad she did.

Then, a couple of months later, came David's retirement. He'd been thinking about it since Spencer's death. Then they faced a case where a man who looked just like their lost youngest ended up being brutally murdered just seconds before they reached him. He knew that his time had come. He owed himself and Spencer better than to become shattered completely by all the death and all those horror stories.

Aaron's announcement of returning to being a prosecutor was, perhaps, the biggest shock of all. Even though he'd been subtly preparing Derek and JJ for it. All of a sudden those two were the only remaining members of the former team, one of them a brand new unit chief and the other heavily pregnant.

Late one evening they stood in Aaron's former office, trying to prepare it for Derek. Upon opening one of the drawers JJ gasped. Derek was instantly alerted. "What's wrong?"

JJ couldn't quite bring herself to talk. Instead she showed, tears welling up in her eyes. It was a framed photograph. Despite all the time passed there was no dust on it.

It was of their team from when it was still whole. Before Ian Doyle momentarily stole Emily. Before the Moriarty twins stole Spencer. All of them smiling, including Aaron albeit barely visibly. Derek couldn't remember when it was taken but it seemed to be one of the better days.

Derek swallowed hard. Barely managed to keep his voice from breaking. "Why do you think he left it behind?"

JJ smiled through her tears. Even if there was some sadness in it. "Maybe… Maybe it's his way of saying that even though we're not together anymore… We're still a family."

As they embraced nearly desperately, the picture and JJ's furiously kicking baby between them, Derek found himself breaking down bit by bit. Each amazing, cherished memory flashed through his mind, tugging at his heart. Trying to mend and break it all at once. A stunningly clear flash of Spencer's smile helped him regain his breath just when he'd lost it. Finally, finally, there was a tiny bit of reassurance in his heart.

None of them, Spencer included, had gone anywhere, not really.

* * *

It wasn't an easy battle for the remaining two brothers, either, despite the BAU-team's help and care. The monster in the back of Mycroft's head kept rearing its ugly head over and over again, rendering the man beyond exhausted. The withdrawal burned Sherlock like the purgatory.

The grief wasn't the only problem. They'd both been through a massive trauma. Along with their still lingering physical ailments they had a ton of mental scarring to cope with. Flashbacks, nightmares and full blown night terrors were common occurrences. Mycroft dreamt of being buried alive, deaf and sightless, of failing both of his brothers. Sherlock dreamt of John and all the others dying, over and over and over again.

Stunningly enough they actually agreed to stay with David. It wasn't easy on any of the three. The brothers reminded David a little too much about Spencer. David's presence and sadness filled the two with unneeded guilt. They clashed often. Well, Sherlock clashed with the other two. While the younger brother raged and roared, spewing out the poisonous feelings coursing through his veins, Mycroft just closed into himself, bottling up everything and closing everyone out. Slammed shut like a clam. Until he couldn't.

It started innocently enough. He was planning on calling an associate at work but accidentally dialed Spencer's number instead. Apparently the team had forgotten to take care of one tiny thing because he was directed to a voice mail. " … _Spencer Reid. I can't get to the phone right now but_ …"

That was all Mycroft could listen to. With a howl of such fury and agony that shouldn't have been human he hurled the phone at the nearest wall. Then proceeded to demonstrate the full force of his grief to the entire exercise room, where he'd been running on a treadmill.

Which was how Sherlock found him. At first the younger man stared at the chaos. Then focused on him. "Alright?" Receiving a nod the detective went on. "Chinese?"

Mycroft nodded again, faintly this time, and slumped bonelessly to the floor. Somehow feeling far lighter than before. Sherlock sat beside him, so close that he could feel his brother's warmth. Neither of them spoke while they waited for the take-away food and for the storm to pass by.

A few hours later David came home from a case that'd taken longer than expected. Instantly he got a feeling of dread and instinct led him towards the training room. The sight there made him wonder whether he should laugh, groan or run for his life.

The whole room looked like a tornado had swept through it. And there, in the middle of the chaos, sat Sherlock and Mycroft. Eating Chinese. Actually eating, both of them.

With a faint smile on his face David closed the door and left, deciding that his guests would clean up the mess and that he needed a stiff drink.

* * *

After five full months the brothers decided that they couldn't just hide in America forever. It was time to go home. Time to try and live. To perhaps even move on.

When Mycroft arrived to work Anthea was, as predicted, the first person he met. "Welcome back." She looked at him with critical, understanding eyes. "Are you alright?"

Mycroft actually thought about it for a few moments. "Yes. I'm alright." It was the first time in ages he meant it. "Now, I'm under the impression that I have a lot of work to do."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had left Baker Street to Sherlock. On the early morning of his arrival Sherlock hesitated behind the familiar door. He was already about to turn away when a sudden bout of strength filled him. After a deep breath he opened the door and entered. "Into battle…", he murmured before closing the door behind him.

That night he didn't delete the messages he'd left to John's blog during the darkest of his days. Declarations of hatred. Pleas. He'd meant them, at least partially. Just like he meant what he posted that night. These were words John deserved.

' _Thank you. I miss you._ '

Three weeks later Sherlock appeared to his first crime scene since the beginning of the horror story. Of course Greg noticed him muttering to John every now and then. Of course the doctor was still there, even if only in spirit. Surely John would know better than to just leave Sherlock.

It wasn't until later he realized that Sherlock wasn't limping anymore.

* * *

It was a rather late evening when a heavily drunk William Reid stood on a cemetery, staring at the candle he just lit with misery filled, glassy eyes. Perhaps Erik Collins should've felt pity on the pathetic creature. He didn't. Instead he approached.

William glanced towards him when he lit a candle. Erik was the one who spoke first. "You here for someone special?"

William gulped laboriously. The man seemed taken aback by the scars on his face. "For my son." There was a long pause. "You?"

Erik's voice was deceitfully calm and even. "I'm here for my son, too." He sighed, making the flame dance violently. "It's a shame how we can fail our children, isn't it?"

William nodded gloomily, not looking at him. Tears gathered to the man's eyes. "I just… I wish that I would've had the chance to earn his forgiveness. That… That I would've been able to make it all up to him…"

A flash of murderous rage crossed Erik. He let none of it show. _We both failed him._ "I know exactly what you're talking about", he admitted. Then, with a great amount of grace, he turned and began to walk away. "Maybe you'll get to make amends sooner than you expect."

Erik had no task left in the world but this one. No reason left to live. Once this was done he'd disappear like the ghost he was and wait for the devil to claim him.

William's body was found the following morning. A car crash. It was falsely classified as an accident.

* * *

And then came the day JJ went into labor. After nine and a half hours of long, hard and painful work she and Will finally got to greet their new baby girl. JJ wasn't entirely sure what the tears were for when she kissed her daughter's head, pulling the newborn as close to her as she could.

It wasn't much of a surprise that one by one the members of the BAU-family began to gather into the hospital room. All of them thrilled to meet the newest addition to their gang, more than one of them teary eyed. After the nightmare they'd been through they could all use some hope, some promise of a brighter tomorrow.

As soon as they saw the baby's midnight blue eyes they could tell that they'd found exactly that.

"Oh my gosh…!" Penelope cooed. She'd robbed the little one from her parents and didn't seem to have any intention of returning her anytime soon. "She's perfect!"

Derek chuckled. "You've said that five times already, baby girl." It wasn't a complaint.

"Are you going to keep the baby all to yourself or are the rest of us going to get a turn sometime soon?" Alex joined in.

With the rest of them focused on the child JJ took her time to observe them.

The past few months had been nothing short of hell on Derek but now, finally, the man began to appear genuinely happy. At least a small amount of self-hatred would probably always be there but it was no longer suffocating the man. The rest of them didn't mention the new tattoo they all noticed on his wrist, a series of numbers. The date of Spencer's death.

Penelope's new job, the change of environment, had done her good. She'd most likely never be quite the same, bubbly person she once was but she was coping better than well. She once confessed to JJ that she still lit a candle for Spencer every evening.

Aaron's face had gained several new lines. But his shoulders weren't so very hunched anymore. He'd never forgive himself for what happened to Spencer but at least the weight of the guilt wasn't crushing him anymore.

Alex seemed to have made the most out of her own new start. Still she seemed to be grieving. Was it any wonder that Spencer left a permanent imprint on her?

In a bafflingly short time a stunning amount of silver had sneaked its way to David's hair, as though a symbol to the grief in the man's heart. But at least his smile didn't seem forced anymore. A few weeks earlier he published a new book. It was dedicated to Spencer.

JJ herself didn't have it easy, either. Sleepless nights… Tears… Henry's grief over losing his favorite uncle… It'd been devastating. At times she'd been sure that she'd lose her family. In the end, however, she gathered herself on the last minute. Reminder herself that Spencer wouldn't want her to lose her boys. Love was stronger.

She never heard the knock. That's why Emily's voice startled her. "Is there room for a few more visitors?"

Looking up she discovered that Emily wasn't alone. Sherlock and Mycroft also lingered by the doorway, appearing uncertain whether they should enter or not. JJ found herself smiling radiantly. "Always", she answered, firmly yet gently.

While Emily was busy greeting the rest of the team Sherlock approached the baby. It was impossible to tell what went through the man's head in those long seconds that seemed to stretch. Twice he seemed to contemplate touching but decided against it.

Eventually JJ decided to have pity on him. "You're allowed to hold her, you know?" She went on as soon as his lips opened for a protest. "I insist it."

At first it was awkward. Sherlock appeared so tense and hesitant that for a while JJ felt sorry for him. Then, very slowly, he seemed to get used to the feel of the baby and relax. Or perhaps it was something else entirely he was getting used to. JJ knew that he never got to hold John's baby. Maybe this was a tiny consolation.

"Have you thought about names?" Aaron inquired.

"Well…" JJ and Will exchanged a look. "There's a name that we've been thinking about. But… We'd like to get all of your approval." She looked towards the baby, feeling something flutter in her chest. Then her eyes focused on Sherlock, who still didn't seem entirely sure what to do with the infant. The sight was absolutely adorable. "Joan Spencer LaMontagne."

It took a couple of seconds before it truly sunk in. When it did Sherlock stared at her for the longest time. Appearing almost frozen.

"Uh… Sherlock?" Derek waved his hand in front of the man's eyes. "You okay?"

Sherlock didn't seem to notice. There was something none of them had ever seen before in his eyes as they landed on the baby who was making quiet, happy noises. The detective gulped before nodding. "Yes. I approve."

JJ couldn't help but smile at that, even though she felt close to crying. Again. This time it had nothing to do with hormones. "Good." There was so much more she would've wanted to say but didn't dare to. Even a single more word might've broken her composure entirely.

By the room's doorway Alex glanced towards Mycroft. What she discovered astonished her. For the first time since she met him there was a small yet genuine smile on the government official's face. For a few stolen minutes the worry lines were gone from the man's forehead.

Mycroft, of course, sensed her looking. Fortunately he appeared more curious than defensive. "What is it?"

Alex shook her head, unable to fight back a smile of her own. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Wherever Spencer and John might be, the entire group liked to think that they were smiling down at them.

While the others kept fussing around the baby, whom Sherlock refused to let go of, Will whispered to JJ's ear. "Spencer promised that he'd get Henry into Cal Tech. Where do you think Sherlock's going to get Joan?"

JJ leaned against Will and grinned, looking at the brothers. What a fascinating duo Spencer brought into their lives. "I don't know", she admitted. "And I can't wait to find out."

* * *

 ** _The End._**

* * *

A/N: Oh wow… That was long! But I felt like they all deserved it. Reid and John included. What an emotional roller coaster we've had!

It's been a mad, mad ride! THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, to you all for joining in! All those reviews, listings and love… They seriously warm my heart! So thank you! You've been absolutely fantastic.

I really hope that this was a worthy closure to the story! And see. It did end on a happyish note. (smirks sheepishly)

Once agan, THANK YOU! Who knows. Maybe I'll see ya again?

Take care!


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